


Winged Knights and their Favors

by TigerOfSummer



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Canon Compliant, Dubious Consent, Eventual Smut, Eyrie, F/M, Fluff, Foreplay, Gates of the Moon, Gore, Infidelity, Oral Sex, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Slow Burn, Smut, Spoilers for The Winds of Winter, The Winds of Winter, Violence, Voyeurism, Winterfell, the vale, tourney, twow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-05 05:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 111,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4168422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerOfSummer/pseuds/TigerOfSummer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Picking up during Alayne's current situation at the Gates of the Moon as detailed in the latest preview chapter of The Winds of Winter by George R. R. Martin. Sansa Stark remains under her bastard guise as she plays hostess to a remarkable tourney held at the Gates. Knights from all across the lands arrive to vie for a position on Lord Robert's newly formed Brotherhood of the Winged Guard. New faces and old arrive to showcase their skills in the joust. *This story is not for the light of heart.*</p><p>*COMPLETE*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is written to take place in the middle of the new TWoW Alayne chapter released by GRRM, which can be read here: http://web.archive.org/web/20150604025854/http://www.georgerrmartin.com/excerpt-from-the-winds-of-winter/
> 
> Enjoy!

Alayne watched the girl’s shoulders, the way the left one leant slightly back so that her hand was at her belt while the other held on to the short reins of the mule. Even when riding the sure-footed creature, Mya Stone carried herself with an air of confidence no bastard should have a right to show. Alayne admired her, wanted to be like her, as sure as the animal under her of the road that lay ahead. Mya knew who she was; she had only one name to live up to, and a bastard’s name at that. Alayne was only just getting to know herself.

The two girls continued to descend the stone road from the Maiden’s Tower, listening to the soft clangor of buckets hanging off the pack mules and the tapping of hooves against stone. The chill of the wind cascaded off their cheeks, but a sharp right turn in the road sent it the other way. It was one of Mya’s chores to go down to the gorge and springs in the valley and retrieve fresh water for the kitchens and baths up in the tower. Alayne often joined her on these trips, taking the opportunity to see the country from outside stonewalls and observe different people in the Vale going about their daily businesses. 

The people didn’t look at her the way they once looked at Sansa. Most of the villagers barely glanced at her unless they recognized her to be the Lord Protector’s bastard daughter. Though she did provoke some men into winks and smiles and catcalls, they were wont to frighten her. Sansa had resisted Mya’s offer to take her down to the springs at first, for her own private fear of being recognized for someone she wasn’t supposed to be. Alayne told her that it was best the Lord Protector’s daughter not be seen doing a servant’s work. Mya insisted that the Lord Protectors daughter would never be seen at all, and dressed Alayne in a washerwoman’s garb, hoping to repel any unwanted attention. 

Having laughed at the notion of herself wearing such clothing in comparison to her usual fine dresses, Alayne reminded herself that she was just a bastard after all, and that no one would care to take a second glance at a washerwoman. By this day, she was seventeen and well accustomed to the feel of the rough spun cotton dresses under her palms. In fact, she loved it more than any other disguise she’d ever worn. Being able to peer into the lives of the common folk without attracting much attention was the closest she would be to invisibility, and Mya had been the one to show her the way.

Having finally descended into the valley, Alayne caught sight of a number of women gathered at the springs, scrubbing clothes and filling buckets with water, their hands red with cold. Alayne always felt pity for the women who had to do the laundry, their hands eroded by their hard work. On occasion she’d slip some coin into their pockets when they weren’t looking, taking some comfort in knowing they’d be glad to find it there later. Her father had enough lying around not to take notice.

Mya stopped a few yards away from the spring and Alayne followed suit, tying their mules to a small stone post near a patch of grass. Taking a bucket in either hand, Alayne followed Mya to the springs. Tall and clear, the water cascaded against the rocks from the Mountains of the Moon, sparkling in the sunlight and partially concealing a shallow cave. Alayne got a hold of her footing near the stream, the stones wet and slippery beneath her boots. Reaching her hand out to touch a small trickle of water, she watched as it ran down across her palm, clean and fresh. She couldn’t help but cup her hands in the icy liquid and bring them up to her mouth, quenching her thirst and savoring the feel of the cold water running down into her body.

The sound of a bucket hitting a puddle snapped her out of her reverie. “Quit your splashing around now, Bora,” Mya called from across the stream, “we’ve got buckets to fill.” Because her washerwoman’s garb wasn’t enough, Mya had to call Alayne by a different name whenever they frequented the springs, taking a special liking to calling her Bora, meaning snow. Many a serving woman would question her parentage, attempting to make conversation while working, but Alayne tried to avoid them as best she could, and Mya helped by convincing them she was mute.

Lifting one of the large pails at her feet, Alayne set it upon a stone under the stream, and waited for it to fill. She rested her left hand on the rim of the bucket, lightly touching the water as it fell with her fingers, thinking about how the women boiled it after bringing them up to the tower. Her eyes wandered to the darkness behind the shallow waterfall, imagining all of the different creatures that would take shelter there in a storm. 

Some clamor nearby heralded a messenger making his way towards Mya from among the washerwomen. An older man who appeared to be a villager. “Oy, you there!” He sounded winded. “Mya, is it? I’ve word the Waynwood banners been seen an hour down the road. Best you hurry on up and let castle know, now.” 

“So soon?” Mya furrowed her brow. The man gave her a stern look and began walking back from whence he came. Forgetting him, she turned to Alayne, who was still filling the buckets. 

“That’s enough, we’ve got to make haste,” she said as she began fastening the mules.

Once they were out of the valley and well up nearing the castle, Alayne could not help but wonder how she would be received. “I assume they’ve brought Harry in tow,” she stated.

“Don’t be nervous. He’s just like any other man, just a little more esteemed than the rest,” Mya reassured. 

“I’m not nervous,” she lied, “just…”

“Eager?”

Alayne gave her a shy smile. She considered how she had presented the notion of holding a tourney to Petyr as a way to lure the Vale’s nights to the Gates of the Moon, Harry included. Her father had taken the notion and ran with it, imagining how hungry and impressionable they were, eager for an adventure. That, and an opportunity to grant the victors a place on Robyn’s personal guard. _His own Kingsguard, to keep him safe and make him brave._ Petyr set out almost instantly to make the appropriate arrangements. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Lord Protector Petyr Baelish had scheduled a feast for the peasants and lesser lords and ladies of the Vale that night to honor the guests who had traveled far and wide for the tourney. Alayne, his natural daughter, was expected to be only the most generous and pleasant host one would ever hope for. She was also expected to be beautiful, or at least so she thought when she saw the stunning dark green satin dress he sent to her. 

Long and elegant, the dress was much too rich for a girl of her status, and yet just revealing enough for a girl of her age. Holding it up in the fading light, she examined the neckline of the dress; it expressed a garniture of golden lace embroidered into the fabric, drawing the eye downwards towards the wearer’s chest. The lace was embroidered along the hem of the skirts as well, and the sleeves were buttoned at the wrists. 

Changing out of her housedress she suddenly became all too eager to try the dress on. Something in the way it felt to wear a dress this beautiful made Alayne feel nostalgic, as if she remembered herself being something more than a bastard girl. _A girl with a head full of stories and songs._ Dressing like a princess made her feel like one, but she could not let herself remember. Sometimes Alayne imagined that her father knew it would remind her of things better left forgotten, but she pushed those thoughts away, thinking instead that it was out of kindness that he sent her such lavish gifts.

She had only just begun lacing the front of the tight bodice when there was a knock at her door. 

“Daughter, may I enter?” asked Petyr Baelish. 

She hurriedly tugged the final bow of the yellow lace before her bosom. “Yes, father,” she said, and with that he entered her chambers.

“My, my," he said, eyes bright, “you look quite the vision in that dress.” He stood a few paces away from her, hands behind his back and face smiling. Alayne blushed and grinned back at him. “It is the most beautiful dress you’ve given me yet, father, thank you. I take it you’ve met the Lady Waynwood and her company?” _And Harrold the Horrible?_ He closed the gap between them, and reached out a hand to touch a brown lock of hair near her collar.

“Will you keep it down tonight? It’s much more flattering to your neckline,” he suggested, ignoring her. She turned from his touch, making as if to look into her full-length mirror. “If it so pleases you, father,” she said, taking a brush to her long, chestnut hair. The brown of her hair against the dark green of her dress was a pleasing sight; it reminded her of a childhood deep into the summer. 

“It does. I’m sure you will make for a memorable hostess tonight,” he said, “I heard of your exchange with the Waynwoods.” 

She knew all too well what he meant by that, seeing the disappointment in his eyes. Her father had been trying to set a good enough match for her since she was fourteen, and yet, despite all of the suitors who attempted to court her, none seemed esteemed enough or powerful enough to please her father. Even now that a proper suitor had presented himself, her plan turned out to be a failure. 

“He’s horrible,” she conceded.

“The lot of them will be, sweet. You should be accustomed to it by now.”

“I suppose,” she said, “but I just don't understand why he should be so cruel. He called me a bastard in front of everyone.”

“As far as he knows that's all you are. A bastard and a bastard beneath him at that. I'm sure Bronze Yohn has warned him about me as well.” Petyr reached out, rubbing his hands on her arms. "Hardyng is Robert's heir. We need him here to forward our plan. Only you can keep him here. He has a soft spot for a pretty face, and yours is the prettiest in the Vale. Charm him. Entice him."

She flushed. "How?"

Littlefinger smiled one of those smiles that did not quite reach his eyes. “I'm sure you'll be able to figure that one out on your own." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The clatter of dishes being served could be heard even some distance away from the main entrance, the vibrations of drums felt through their feet. It grew louder the closer they got to the main hall, the entrance decorated with thick velvet curtains swept to the side, it’s large wooden doors held ajar. Two soldiers stood watch on either side.

Alayne felt a nervous thrill run through her. She was late and being escorted by the Lord of the Vale, not to mention she was absolutely stunning in her new dress. It had taken some effort to convince Sweetrobin to come join her in the Great Hall. He did hate his cousin so. But she succeeded in bringing the little lord out with a slight threat of Littlefinger's displeasure. She was certain all eyes would be upon them as they entered. The clangor of tables and chairs, loud laughter and conversations in the hall, and rhythm of the music drew her forward. She did not hesitate to make sure Sweetrobin was comfortable but swept into the Great Hall.

It was all as she expected. Almost every pair of eyes was set towards them. She became uncomfortably aware of how low the neckline of her dress was. The music did not cease to play, however, and she and Sweetrobin made their way to his seat.

Petyr Baelish was seated upon a plush chair towards the center of a long table at the end of the hall. He leant on the arm of his chair, his fingers still under his chin. He was staring at Alayne, a coy smile playing on his lips as on old man talked and swung around a leg of chicken beside him. The food was overflowing on the table, each and every steady glass filled with wine. The seat to his right was vacant: Robert’s seat. She walked the boy to his place at the table, placed a kiss upon his cheek and Petyr’s and set out to find Mya or Myranda. 

The sun had set and it was officially dark outside. Nothing but darkness seeped through the tall, stain-glassed windows adorning the hall. Candles were lined against the walls on every side and upon every table; giant circular mirrors hung everywhere, reflecting the candlelight and giving the room a warm orange hue. The servants were weaving in and out in every direction. _This is the most crowded I’ve ever seen this place,_ she thought as she struggled to find a familiar face. 

_There you are._ Mya was standing near some tapestries, arms crossed, discussing something with Ser Lothor Brune, a long time admirer of hers. She suddenly slowed her pace, not wanting to intrude upon them. She turned and scanned the room, looking for Myranda. From the corner of her eye she noticed Petyr was constantly aware of her. _He watches me like a hawk,_ she thought with some nervousness. She didn’t let it show. 

She found her place above the salt and beneath a wall sconce, just as her father had intended.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Harry partnered her in the dance, his tone had changed completely. He grinned, teeth white and straight. “...I will hold you to that promise, my lady. Until that day, may I wear your favor in the tourney?”

“You may not. It is promised to… another.” Sansa was not sure who as yet, but she knew she would find someone.

Showing him a slight smirk, she walked back to her place below the dais, weary from being whirled about. She thought on her exchange with Harry, considered it successful enough as she forked a bite of the lemon cake on her plate. Denying him her favor was a move Petyr would think was chancy, but she had an inkling Harry was a man who may be intrigued with a bit of a chase. 

Alayne watched as skirts twirled and twisted about. The customary dances of the Vale were much different from those slow, sweeping waltzes observed at Kingslanding or the fast paced promenades of Winterfell. The men and women held open armed stances, like those of birds spreading their wings, as each couple danced around each other. The women held their arms lower than the men, in a more demure fashion, and moved their hands and wrists elegantly. Myranda was among them and could be seen dancing with Harry. Alayne felt a slight pit in her stomach as Harry held her by her elbows and said something to her. _He’s asking for her favor,_ she realized, a rush of jealously striking her abruptly. 

She quickly composed herself and studied the couple further. Her attentions were noticed when Myranda glanced in her direction. Alayne decided it appropriate to smile and nod. She had denied Harry her favor and it was to be expected that he would ask another. She only regretted that it should be Randa. They exchanged some more words and Myranda was grinning enthusiastically by the end of their dancing. Alayne took a sip of wine. 

“So? What was it like dancing with the Harry Arse?” Mya had seated herself in Ser Lymond’s vacant chair nearby. 

“I see you’ve been speaking with Ser Lothor,” Alayne giggled.

“I hope since you agreed to dancing with him he’s made amends for his atrocious behavior in the yard.”

“I made him beg for a dance.” 

Mya’s eyes grew wide with mirth. “As well he should have, now he knows his place.” She raised her glass and Alayne raised hers to meet it. 

“To feasts and tourneys and the range of lordly, upjumped arseholes they attract for our entertainment,” she rang. They drank deeply.

Alayne could not contain herself. “He asked for my favor.”

“Indeed he did,” Mya said. “You didn’t give it to him, of course?”

“How’d you know?”

Mya laughed. “Littlefinger’s daughter isn’t like to give out favors without a man having earned them.”

Alayne just grinned at her from behind her wine glass. The dance floor showed no signs of slowing down. On the contrary, as the night drew on the men grew drunker, louder, and more raucous. Mya and Alayne could not contain their laughter as they witnessed a red-faced Ser Morgath kicking his legs about entirely out of sync as nearby onlookers urged him on, clapping and jeering as he made a drunken fool of himself. He looked ready to burst, sweat dripping down his face. Alayne felt her own self falling prey to the wine when a hand rested on her shoulder.

“Daughter,” he said, “it appears we’ve had some unexpected guests in the night.” Alayne stood, slowly so as not to betray her insobriety. 

“What would you have me do?”

“Take Mya and have the maids clear a table for them near the western end. Have them served whatever leftovers we can muster and make sure they’re not presented as such. Although I don’t think the distinction will matter much.”

“Who are they?” Alayne asked.

“Some of those impoverished brothers from the Quiet Isle. Holy beggars, is what they are. Tourneys are breeding grounds for charitable lords and merchants, everyone’s in a cheerful mood. Perfect opportunity to preach their holy gospel and fill their holy pockets,” he said, mostly to himself. “I should have foreseen this.”

“I’ll handle it, father,” Alayne assured. “Come, Mya.”

Making their way through the throng of people, politely rejecting offers to dance among other more lewd offers, they made it to the kitchens. Several of the cooks and maids and servants were lounging about having their way with the leftovers, a number of empty wine bottles strewn about. The ovens always left the kitchens on the warmer side and everyone was perspiring from the heat and drink. Other than that, they seemed in good spirits. Mya quickly rounded them up.

“Apologies for the interruption,” she mostly shouted. “Great job tonight, everyone. The food was excellent as ever and the service, truly, I have never seen Wiley so well behaved.” Mya ruffled up one of the younger servant's hair nearby. “We have some late guests in need of accommodation and quickly. Gather whatever leftovers you haven’t already eaten and make it decently presentable, will you? Enough of that,” she grabbed a bottle from one of the servants. “Hurry up now, the Lord Protector will not stand to keep our humble Brothers waiting long.”

Alayne stopped one of the older maids and told her to have the boys reset a table near the western wing of the Great Hall. After the maid set off to gather the servants, Alayne made her way to the hall’s side entrance near the inner ward to greet the holy Brothers. They were not ones to make a scene with their terribly late arrival. The side entrance would prevent their interrupting the festivities a great deal. 

Alayne crossed the gallery and descended the stair toward the ward, where she found a group of men cloaked in brown robes with bell sleeves and pointed cowls waiting around and making light conversation near the dimly lit sconces. Some were lithe and gangly, others were heavier set. One was remarkably tall, face veiled like some of the others. Some of the men gave her a curious look as she came by but spoke no word of greeting. Only the Elder Brother and his proctors were likened to speak, the others taking a vow of silence. The former was easy to make out, an old white haired man gripping a cane.

“Elder Brother,” she called as she made her descent. “My name is Alayne Stone, daughter of Petyr Baelish. May I have the pleasure of escorting you and your brothers to the feast?”

The old man she’d addressed stared up at her, grinning sheepishly. His face was kindly, with wise eyes filled with wisdom and a relaxed happiness. Alayne awaited his response, but was interrupted by another, tall man in the prime of his years as he approached her. 

“A common mistake, my lady,” said the man. “But I am the Elder Brother, and it would be entirely our pleasure to have you escort us.” 

Alayne was taken aback by the man. He looked more like a man likened to break men down rather than heal them. His head was large and square, his eyes shrewd, his nose veined and red. He looked not a day older than forty.

“Pardon me,” she said. “You all must be starving, please,” she led on, “just this way. The feast is already well underway but we are ever welcoming of our dear visitors from the Quiet Isle.” She ventured for some topic of discussion as they walked. “How were the roads to the Gates of the Moon? Not wholly unpleasant, I hope.”

“We brothers are quite accustomed to the terrain, my lady. You must pardon us our late arrival. We did not anticipate such heavy snowfalls in the passes. Having traveled by foot we were severely slowed down.”

“Think nothing of it, my lord. Our doors are always open.”

“As are our services, my lady.” 

“Your services?”

“We have a septon with us, Septon Meribald whom you addressed earlier. As well as numerous able-bodied men eager to work. I have the power of healing and am more than willing to assist with the Lord Robert. The castle is likely short handed what with the tourney and nightly feasts.”

“I am sure we will find suitable, temporary positions for the brothers here, Elder. The Septon will likely be busy day and night hearing the confessions around these parts,” Alayne smiled. The Elder Brother did not look entertained.

“What is it that ails the little lord, again?”

“He has the shaking sickness,” Alayne said seriously. _Best hope he takes better to you than he does to Maester Colemon._

“Ah, a rare disorder indeed. Would the lady be so kind to show us to the Sept on the morrow? It has been some time since we’ve visited the castle.”

“Of course,” she sighed, annoyed at having to entertain these holy, chaste men when numerous knightly bachelors littered the castle.

After a few moments in silence, they arrived at the door. The guards standing sentinel made way for their entrance. Alayne moved to open the door and held it ajar as the brothers entered in pairs. The small orchestra in the Great Hall had considerably slowed down, and some guests who were not yet sleeping at the table seats were waltzing on the dance floor. Some of the candles had lost their luster, casting a dim aura about the hall. She counted twelve brothers in total, most young and seemingly able bodied. The tall one betrayed a bit of a limp, likely from an old wound. He passed by her now, his shroud a curious fascination to her. She could not see his face, but she deemed he could see hers. She smiled awkwardly and looked askance. He merely walked on. 

Alayne was happy to see the table set as she had asked, the maids ready with food and wine as the brothers seated themselves. Petyr appeared from the dais to greet the holy men.

“Welcome, gentle brothers,” he said. “It is a pleasure to have our humble neighbors of the Quiet Isle finally join us. The Seven only know how desperately we were missing a holy element to our festivities.” He showed a bright smile. “Tell me, how was your journey?” 

Alayne trailed off, uninterested in hearing the rest of the dull, redundant conversation. She found Mya lounging with Ser Lothor Brune in her seat on the eastern side of the hall. Alayne pulled up a chair and called for a servant to fill her wine glass.

“What’s this about a squad of brethren gracing our castle?” Ser Lothor asked.

“Nothing but more responsibilities for me, this time of the holier nature.”

“That one’s almost as big as you,” Mya commented, speaking to Lothor. She meant the veiled one. 

“From up close, I would say even bigger,” Alayne teased.

“A holy brother? Stronger than an experienced knight such as myself? I’ll be damned.”

“Think he’d be up for some sparring?” Mya asked.

“I doubt holy brothers spar. I’m sure they’ve all taken vows of nonviolence.” Alayne said. She watched as the man lifted his cowl above his mouth to eat, curious too see what lay beneath. He showed a layer of stubble on his chin, not unlike the other brothers. She could not tell for certain from her distance at the other end of the hall, but she could’ve sworn half of his hard, square jaw was shaven.

“I’m sure if you offered him a silver he’d spar with you,” Mya urged. “He just has to have some experience with the sword. Look at his muscles! Probably some deserter knight turned holy. Why else would he hide his face as such?”

“They wear the cowls in atonement for their sins. He’s probably a novice,” Alayne said, using her girlhood studies of the followers of the Seven. “As for his muscles, he more than likely does the harder work required at the Isle.” Alayne drew her attention away from the brother, worried he might catch them staring. It was impolite to stare. “Has anyone seen Randa?” she asked. 

“Haven’t seen her for some time. Might be she made the smart choice and left this drunken mess of a hall for her featherbed. As should you two. These are no suitable hours for ladies,” Ser Lothor goaded. 

“Define _lady,_ ” Mya giggled. She took a sip of her wine. 

Alayne gulped down the rest of her glass and stood, bidding the both of them good night. It was high time she rested. The first day of the tourney began on the morrow, and she would need ample sleep for the responsibilities that lie ahead for the next few days. Making her way up the staircase of the Maiden’s Tower, past a couple of inebriated persons fondling each other in the dark, she made her way to her chambers. The Vale had changed considerably since her Aunt Lysa had died and Petyr had taken over. 

Once inside, she splashed cold water about her face. Touching her face made her think of the hooded brothers, made her thankful she never had to take vows of silence and servitude. She was desperate once, but not so desperate. Crawling into bed, she wrapped her blankets around her, thinking on Harry the Heir and how he would fare at the joust. Then she remembered he would wear Myranda’s favor. It made her oddly excited, and she secretly relished the thought that he had asked her first.

And then she remembered she had entirely forgotten to grant her favor to anyone. A nervous flutter settled in her tummy. _It may be better I grant it to no one,_ she thought. _But how would that appear? It would appear as though no one had even bothered to ask me._ No, she still had time. She would find someone on the morrow, she promised herself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tourney Begins

The castle had awoken with the dawn on the first day of the tourney. Smoke rose from the hearths among the settlements as those foreign to the Gates of the Moon broke their fast. Servants were rushing this way and that putting the final touches on the preparations and the smithies were churning out blunted tourney swords and other weaponry for the melee. The sigils of house Arryn were being raised in the ward as well as the lists of competitors of the day. Any knight who sought to compete for wings would need to join the preliminary tourney without exception, else he be disqualified from the ranks. Alayne knew all of the rules of the proper proceedings by heart. 

In the dining hall, Mya had a sour look on her face as she turned from a group of raucous men at a nearby table. Ser Lyn Corbray could be seen adding his share of the coin, what little he had of it.

“They’re betting on today’s joust. All idiots, the lot of them. My mother always said gambling was a sickness.”

Alayne swallowed down the bite of fried egg she had been chewing before speaking. “She’d probably hate my father,” she said. “He simply cannot resist a good bet.”

“At least Baelish is smart with his decisions. Not seen him putting anything on any tables as yet.” 

“It’s too early,” Alayne replied. _Not that I know anything about gambling,_ she thought. _Just that I know my father._

Just then, Ser Mychel Redfort appeared before them. Mya’s face colored instantly. 

“Good morrow, my ladies,” he said, bowing gallantly. “Where might one find the lists? I’d like to place a wager.” Mya made a sound of disgust.

“Forgive her, she has an aversion to gambling,” Alayne said. 

“Are you sure it is just the gambling she is averse to?”

“You wouldn’t take kindly to the truth of that,” Mya scoffed.

Ser Mychel chuckled darkly, trying to conceal his anger. “Mya, my dear. May we speak in private?”

“No,” she replied curtly, then jerked her head to the side. “I’m sure those men over there have copied a list for themselves. Go test your chances over there.”

Ser Mychel coughed in a way that sounded like “pardon me,” and left in the direction he was guided. 

Alayne looked at her friend. “You shouldn’t be so rude to him, he’s a guest just as any other.”

Mya turned to her friend, her face incredulous. “He deserves it and you know that!”

Alayne had the courtesy to keep silent. _Probably deserves worse,_ she thought. Ser Redfort had entertained a courtship with Mya for some time, only to be found under the skirts of a common wench during the feast of Sweetrobin’s nameday by a very furious Mya. She had not forgiven him since. 

“Come, shall we go look at the lists?” Alayne asked. They stood together and made their way towards the doors of the dining hall where stood Myranda speaking to a servant. She looked exceptionally pale with a slouched stature and a sickly expression on her face. 

“Randa!” Alayne said, “Where have you been?”

Myranda attempted a smile. “I woke as if I’d been kicked in the head by a mule.” She yawned. 

“The maester can have a tea with some strong leaves of ol’Molly made for you. Always does the trick for me,” Mya advised.

“Yes I know, I just sent the servant to fetch some. How are you ladies? How did you enjoy last night?” She was looking at Alayne.

“It was… eventful.” She said, smiling. “I saw you speaking with Harrold.”

“It was mostly him speaking and me listening, really. Alas, all he could think to talk about was you so I don’t think I shall be stealing him back any time soon,” she winked.

Alayne had the grace to blush at that. “Well, we were just on our way to view the lists. Would you like to join us?”

“Going to see who you’ll grant your favor to?”

“Who says I haven’t granted it already?”

Randa and Mya both looked at her inquisitively. “It’s a secret,” Alayne whispered, “Like in the tales of old. You’ll see him when he rides with my favor tied to his vambrance.” _First I must find him,_ she thought. 

 

Out in the ward, there were a couple of brothers of the Quiet Isle watering the dirt to prevent dust clouds by the competitors’ horses. _Good, they’ve been put to work, no matter how menial._ The Elder Brother must have spoken to Petyr. Across the yard, some onlookers had already secured their seats on the second and third rows of the viewing stands. The first rows were, of course, reserved for honored lords and guests. Alayne and Mya found the lists set upon a large wooden easel.

“Hah!” Mya exclaimed. “Who allowed this?”

Alayne hurried to look. _Mystery knights._ These nameless, faceless knights had been outlawed under King Arys the Second, but the folk had long since ceased enforcing such things. Underneath the list of sixty-four named knights written in elegant font were the rushed scribblings of the vague names of mystery knights, four in total. There was the Maiden’s Defender, the Knight of Fire, Silent Rider, and the Secret Prince. _The last is like to garner quiet a few favors by name choice alone._ Alayne briefly entertained the thought of giving her favor to one of these nameless knights, if only for today. _Like the tales of old, indeed,_ she thought. She knew come tonight’s feast she would likely grant it to Harry should he perform well. 

“Rudyard was supposed to keep an eye on the lists for this very reason! Augh, I shall have to give that boy a good rapping on the head should I see him,” Mya said.

As the crowds began to draw into the yard, Alayne and Mya hurriedly made their way to the stands. They seated themselves to the side of the low dais where Sweetrobin would sit with other esteemed lords and guests of honor, including Petyr and Lady Waynwood. Alayne could see them now approaching from the western side of the castle. Petyr Baelish walked alongside Lord Grafton as they spoke, trailed by Lord Nestor Royce wearing a cloak of bronze with the black iron studs of Runestone and Lady Waynwood wearing an elegant green dress and a brooch bearing the broken black wheel that was her house sigil. Lord Hunter and Lord Templeton could be seen not far behind them, along with Lord Belmore and Lord Redford. _All of the lords declarant,_ Alayne thought. _Except one._

A loud cheer and applause announced Sweetrobin’s entrance. He appeared atop his horse, being led by a squire towards the dais. He wore an extravagant surcoat that bore the moon and falcon of house Arryn, sky blue and cream. The rich fabric of his cloak cascaded behind him over the seat of his horse. His silky, brown hair settled on his shoulders. Just as his mother never liked to have his hair cut, he developed a liking to keeping his hair long. _It suits him,_ Alayne thought. He looked every inch as a real lord should look.

“Saved me a seat, did you?” Myranda said as she squeezed in between Alayne and Mya. Alayne looked up at her and chanced to see Petyr looking back at her from where he was seated on the dais. He smiled gently and adjusted his surcoat, the mockingbird brooch fastened to his collar as it ever was. He had an aura of cool confidence about him. _He has likely placed a few bets,_ she thought. Seeing him there brought her back to another tourney they had both witnessed, a long time ago. Petyr told her later that he had backed Ser Loras Tyrell during King Robert’s tourney, and would have won himself a considerable amount of coin if it were not for the Hound.

Randa squeezed her arm as the trumpets sounded far off, announcing the beginning of the tourney. The first knight was Ser Torr of house Devereux, who unhorsed Ser Ivan Horsebeard in the first tilt. Ser Lyn Corbray unhorsed Ser Odon Pippery and Ser Mychel Redfort defeated Ser Harik of Dalwish with ease, much to Mya’s discontent. Alayne watched with a fixed fascination, felt as her heart leapt the moment before each clash of the lances on breastplate. She realized she had been gripping the folds of her gown when Ser Harrold Hardying made his appearance. 

Smoothing out the fabric on her lap, she watched as he made his way across the stands, the crowds cheering for him. Randa stood and waved while Harrold flashed Alayne a bright grin with his straight, white teeth. _He is so handsome._ He wore a silk ribbon that was Randa’s favor on his vambrance. After he got into position, his opponent appeared. Ser Tomas Druel of Sistertown was an older knight with a slight belly on him. Harry was lucky. Ser Druel was flat on his back in the second tilt. Harry’s lance had punched square in the center of his breastplate, likely knocking the wind out of the poor man. Alayne clapped as raucous cheers erupted all around and Harry lifted his helm to look at her. 

A brief intersession was announced by the sound of the musicians taking up their talents. Alayne saw this as her chance to finally give her favor to some unlikely knight. With half the lists already having competed, her options were severely narrowed down. 

“Pardon me, ladies,” she said as she stood. “I’ve a need to relieve myself.”

“Alayne, do bring back some peaches from Wiley if you see him, will you?” said Mya.

Alayne smiled at her. “Of course,” she said, and made her way to the competitors’ tents. 

The muddy dirt underfoot was dirtying the hem of her skirt so she lifted it slightly as she searched for those knights preparing for the tilt. She popped her head into one tent and was cursed with the sight of Ser Uther Shett’s hairy bottom as he changed into riding pants. Leaving before he could see her, she ran to another tent that housed the pimply young knight from Gulltown, who simply stared at her with his mouth hanging agape. Groaning, she turned to try her chances at another tent and then another, but was either met with lurid invitations from forward knights or indecent sights.

On her way out of one tent, she chanced to run into Ser Shadrich the Mad Mouse, donned head to toe in armor that looked much too big on his short stature. He grinned flatly up at her. “Is the lady lost?”

“No, ser,” she said, impatiently pushing past him. _That was rude,_ she thought. She would remember to apologize later. 

Exhausted and running out of time, she tried her hand at one more tent from whence a squire had just made his exit. She peeked cautiously through the folds. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood with his back to her, his lanky black hair falling slightly past his shoulders. He was already fitted with his armor and was just donning his helm when Alayne announced herself. 

“Pardon me, ser,” she said as she entered the tent. 

He stood deathly still. 

“Forgive me for the intrusion. I am in a slight predicament at the moment and would like to grant my favor to an eligible knight…” She chanced a glance around the tent, hoping for some identifying sigil. Her sights landed on a shield lying by a table. Upon it was painted a blank white face with closed eyes, narrow nose, and no mouth over a grey background. She walked over to it, fingered the outer ridge.

“If you please, what house is this? I do not recognize the sigil.” She looked up at him.

She could hardly see his eyes through the helm he bore, and instead of answering her he simply looked down as his knuckles grazed the table and reached for his gauntlets. Then it came to her. _Gods, a mystery knight,_ she thought. _Why now?_

She sighed. “Silent Rider, I presume?”

His movements slowed as he slipped the gauntlets over his calloused, sun darkened hands. He tilted his helm slightly.

Resigning herself, she procured a silk, light green ribbon from her sleeve. 

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said sarcastically as she extended her gift to him. “I rarely do this but will you wear my favor? If only for this tilt?” Her hand hovered expectantly. 

The tall man watched her for a moment and then moved, leaning down slightly as he showed her his vambrance. Alayne approached to tie the ribbon there. Her nimble fingers worked the fabric into a knot around his large bicep. He was breathing deeply beneath his helm. Alayne looked up at his visor when she was done and, before he had the chance to look away, she noticed he had grey eyes. 

“Thank you,” she said. “I look forward to seeing you ride, ser.”

 _This is a folly,_ she thought as she made her way back to the stands. _Mya and Randa will surely laugh when they learn about this._ She hoped the unknown man would at least perform well for her dignity’s sake. 

Nearing the rows of stands, she spotted little Wiley near the fruit stand and made sure to take three peaches with her back to her friends. She found them in a heated discussion with some foreign visitors seated behind them about who should have won the previous tilts and what could have been done better if it were not for a long list of unfortunate circumstances. Alayne saw that Sweetrobin was enjoying a light brunch on the dais as Maester Colemen stood by, ready to tend to him in case of any shaking fits. 

“Took you long enough,” Mya said as she reached for a peach. She took a hearty bite and mumbled “thank you very much,” with her mouth full. Mya reminded Alayne of a sister she once had when she did that. 

The trumpets sounded again as the rest of the knights on the day’s lists showcased their tilting talents. Ser Lothor Brune bested Ser Gershom of Hexham on this first tilt, his sheer size giving him a stark advantage. Ser Shadrich the Mad Mouse was unhorsed by the handsome Ser Byron. _Not that he was expected to last long in the tournament either way._ Ser Shadrich did say himself a Mouse with wings would be a silly sight. Another one of the mystery knights, a fairly tall and heavily muscled knight named the Maiden’s Defender, surprised the crowd by beating Ser Clifton, a favorable knight. The mystery knight held a shield on which was painted the Maiden with her hands clasped around the hilt of a sword as it pointed downward. Some cheers and booing could be heard throughout the crowd. Mystery knights were an unforeseen liability when it came to gambling. 

After a few more tilts came Ser Randall of Skeldergate with his sigil of three snowcapped mountains on a sky blue background painted on his shield. He rode past the stands, a formidable man who appeared to be in his early thirties and was not so unpleasant to look upon. He was also among those knights favored to win wings. His opponent then approached and Alayne despaired to see Silent Rider make his way to position. Randa noticed the silky green favor almost instantly. 

“Alayne, truly, you have such a heart for romanticism,” she said, laughing.

“ _The Silent Rider?_ I would have chosen the Maiden’s Defender,” Mya said.

Color rose to her cheeks as she laughed. “That is your hindsight bias, Mya,” Alayne said. “We shall see how well placed my decision has been,” she added, feigning confidence.

Her favored knight looked to be a few stone heavier than his opponent, which could prove advantageous. He held a sturdier lance and a straighter posture. _This will be as nothing,_ Alayne thought as she tried to calm the fluttering in her tummy and the beating of her heart. She did not know why she would be nervous for a mystery knight. Before she knew it, the flag had been raised and the audience seemed in utter silence. She watched as the flag fell and the competitors bolted. Their horses had picked up so much speed and kicked up so much dust that Alayne could hardly tell which knight lay strewn across the dirt now, flattened by the impact.

Silent Rider remained astride his horse on the opposite end of the yard, turning his horse almost gracefully to face the stands.

Alayne clapped with enthusiasm while Mya and Randa sat with surprised expressions on their faces, and a hint of admiration. There were some curses and booing coming from the other ends of the stands, likely from those who had lost a wager backing Ser Randall. Petyr Baelish did not look so overjoyed either. 

The rest of the tourney continued with little more surprises. Ser Lothor Brune, Ser Albar Royce, and Ser Roland Waynwood all proceeded to best their opponents in the tilt. All the others who had lost or been unhorsed would lose their chance to tilt on the second and third day as well as any chance for wings. Alayne was elated. Harry had smiled at her and won his tilt, and her chanced mystery knight had won to her favor. She stood to join the rest of the company as they made their way to the dining halls for the midday meals, reveling in the thrill of tourneys. 

 

Alayne had been going to look for Petyr when the Elder Brother stopped her unexpectedly.

“Pardon, my lady,” Elder Brother said.

“Hello, my lord. I do hope you’ve made yourself comfortable at the castle.”

“Very much so. The Lord Protector has made well on his promise to put my men to work,” he smiled. “I do hope your offer to show me to the Septry still stands.”

“Of course,” she said, and thought better of it. “I’d like to say a few prayers myself at the moment.”

Hooking her hand around the elbow he offered, she guided the man towards the Sept. The castle had been over crowded for the past fortnight as the visitors were housed to fill each of the seven towers of the Gates of the Moon to the brim. Settlements had needed to be raised, of course, to house the extra servants and foot soldiers and other visitors. The Sept was always crowded in accordance with the influx of people. Alayne much preferred the solitude of the Godswood, but the weirwood there had been cut down years ago. _The old gods belong to another girl,_ she thought. 

Alayne lit a candle before the Maiden and knelt. She clasped her hands together, closed her eyes. _I should like to offer my gratitude for the outcomes of today’s tilt and what ever may come tonight,_ she prayed. _Please, let me be in Harry's good graces so that we may have a happy marriage. If it not be filled with love then fill it with a mutual contentedness and friendship. Give strength to Sweetrobin during these exciting times, and pray ease his ailment so that he may one day be knighted as is his dream._ Alayne opened her eyes to look up at the magnificent statue. Blank, stone orbs gazed downward demurely. When Alayne turned, she found the Elder Brother had been staring at her.

“You bear a stunning likeness to the maiden, my lady,” he said.

“That is kind of you to say, my lord,” she said. _If he weren’t a holy man I would think he were flirting._ “Will you be attending the melee?” The melee was mostly an afterthought. A game for squires and young knights to formally compete in single combat for a chance to win some prizes. 

“No, my lady,” he said. “I have much work and prayer to be done here. I shall like to read the manuscripts housed in the library of the Sept.”

“As you wish,” she said. “I shall see you at the feast this evening. Good day.”

Alayne left the Elder Brother as he knelt before the Crone, winding up on the other side of the Sept where she spotted the old Septon Meribald as he heard the confessions of an equally old woman in a warn, brown dress and a grey cloak about her shoulders. There were a number of people waiting to have their sins heard and purged. Alayne laughed a little to herself, thinking on the comment she had made to the Elder Brother the other night. 

Suddenly, the Septon was bidding good day to the Sept-goers and making his way towards the northern exit. Alayne thought that curious, and decided to follow him. The narrow passageways through the northern exit eventually led to the terrace where used to grow the weirwood. It was nothing but a stump under a delicate layer of snow now. She wondered how tall it once was, and what the face carved into it had looked like. The Septon was making his way slowly as befitted a man of his age, his cane tapping along the cold stone. Alayne watched hidden behind a pillar as the Septon greeted a brother who had been seated on the weirwood stump. 

It was one of the veiled men, the one with the slight limp. It appeared to be a formerly planned meeting as the Septon seated himself along the wide stump near him. The large man dwarfed the Septon as their backs were faced toward her. 

“I hear you’ve had a long and trying day, brother,” Meribald said.

“I confess…” the man said, and an icy chill ran through Alayne’s veins. _His voice…,_ she thought, unable to follow the feelings that arose in her body. She listened with rapt attention.

“…I’ve struggled with a decision of late. And I confess I’ve sinned in more ways than one,” he grated.

“Faith,” urged the Septon. “Believe, persist, and follow, and we shall find the peace we seek, old friend. Let us hear of your sins and let us cast them away.”

The man shifted, lifted one heavy arm to rub at his face beneath the cowl.

“I confess I behaved violently. I unhorsed a man at the tilt, drove my lance into his plate and felt pleasure in doing so. 

“I confess I took the favor of a young woman…” He opened the fist of his hand, played with a strand of some lace that shined the color of lime in the afternoon sun. Her lace. Alayne’s heart was in her throat, blood heating her face and chest.

“And of this woman I take you’ve harbored some impure thoughts? Impossible thoughts?” Meribald tried. He did not respond, merely rubbed the fabric between his fingers as he let the Septon finish. 

“It is as they say, old habits are difficult to let go. You have been a warrior all your life. Fighting is what you did to survive in your past life,” he soothed. “But that is your past. That man died on the trident, you buried him yourself. You are a man reborn now, brother. Rejoice in that you no longer need to fight, only pray in repentance. I pardon you of your sins in the name of the seven-faced God.” The Septon stood, then, hobbled along out of the clearing, leaving the brother alone. 

Alayne left back towards the Sept as quietly as she could. Mya had been closer to the truth than she would ever know. This man possibly really was a deserter knight of the war of the five kings. _But for who’s cause did he fight?_ Alayne wondered. He had died at the Trident, but not died in truth. His voice had arisen such a reaction from deep within her senses that she could hardly begin to describe it. She was drowning in it. It was on the tip of her tongue, what ever it was. He had kept her favor. A holy brother had confessed to impure thoughts. _Of me,_ she thought, somewhat awkwardly. 

She set out to find Petyr like she had originally intended. He was seated in his solar with a glass of wine, looking over the legers on his desk. He looked up from his glass when she entered. 

“Ah, daughter, just who I was looking for.”

Alayne smiled and placed a kiss on his cheek. “How are you, father? Did you enjoy the tourney?”

His face wavered a fraction. “It was all well and good, my sweet, but the real competition begins tomorrow. And not just for the tourney,” he said with a knowing look.

“I should like to give Harry my favor tonight,” she declared.

“I agree. I saw how he looked at you on the grounds. You’ve already got him in the palm of your hand, my dear. Now all you must do is squeeze.” He made a gesture for emphasis. “I’ve had a new gown ordered for you. I hope it is to your liking.”

 _Another?_ “Thank you so much, I am sure it is beautiful.”

“Well, see for yourself,” he waved. “I’m a busy man, you know this, sweetling.”

Alayne stood up to leave.

“Ah ah, give your father a kiss first,” he said.

She knew that tone and what kind of kiss it demanded. It made her nauseated. She placidly kissed his thin lips, his minty breath filling her nose. Then she quickly made her exit before he made any more demands of her, not caring that he should know how uncomfortable he made her feel. When she entered her chamber, she found that Maddy had since laid out her new gown across her bed. It was grey, and it shined even in the waning light. The trim was of a white lace that dipped seductively at the bosom in a heart-shaped manner. The ties laced up the back to just below the shoulder. Alayne thought it was beautiful.

 

The feast was as it had been the night past, except this time Sweetrobin had not refused to go to the feast and went proudly to the Great Hall instead of reluctantly. He was in her arms now as they danced to the song of The New Springs that was being played on flutes and drums. He was wearing the same beautiful surcoat he had on during the tourney having refused to take it off because he liked it so much. Dancing was always a risk, but Alayne figured it would only hearten him if she was careful with him, and she was careful.

With Harry, on the other hand, she was less careful and more assertive. Although she let him lead for most of the dancing, it was she who initiated the closer contact, the dips, and the twirls. 

It was only until later that they found themselves alone on the balcony, above the Great Hall. Under the stars during a frosty early winter night, Alayne could not think of a more perfect setting. She pulled her cloak tightly around her shoulders, more relishing in the feeling than from the cold.

“My lady, you are chilled.” He rubbed his palms against her upper arms.

“Not at all, ser,” she replied. “On the contrary, I feel so warm and full.”

“It is the wine, perhaps,” he ventured.

“Perhaps,” she smiled.

“My lady. Alayne. The night suits you. The cold, it seems everything becomes you.”

_This one is a first,_ she thought, unimpressed. “Thank you, ser.”

“Call me Harry.”

_Squeeze_. “Harry,” she sighed, leaning against the banister. 

“I do love how my name sounds on your lips,” he laughed. He reached for her. Alayne let him. “I must ask you again, Alayne.”

“My favor?”

He nodded, face close to hers, looking down at her. He was warm and inviting. 

She reached into her sleeve for the ribbon but found nothing. She checked the other but realization dawned on her that she had completely forgotten to replace the ribbon she had given away. _Gods, how could I have forgotten? The most important item!_

Looking up at him, she said apologetically, “I don’t have it.”

He chuckled. “Tomorrow then, I shall meet you in the morning before the preparations begin.”

She smiled. _He doesn’t hate me, yet_ , she thought. “Of course I shall meet you. Until then…” She freed herself of his embrace and made her way back to the Great Hall.

“Where are you going?” He called.

“To bed, of course! Another long day awaits us.”

“May I join you?”

Alayne laughed, but continued on. 

In her chambers, she lit a candle and began searching through her wardrobe for another ribbon to gift to Harry. It suddenly dawned on her how ridiculous these traditions were, that the granting of such a little piece of fabric could mean so much and only in the right circumstance or else it would mean nothing at all. Maybe it was the drink in her, but she suddenly began to giggle to herself at the absurdity of a fully armored knight wearing a frilly little pink lace item to accent. She found an old dress with a lace trimming and was able to remove it cleanly. Setting it aside on her dresser, she crawled into her warm bed and thought on her day as she drifted off to sleep. 

It had all been absurd. A mystery knight of all the knights she could have chosen. And a brother in disguise who was also a deserter in disguise, so really the man had multiple disguises. The thought made her want to laugh again. She darkly wished she could just rip the cowl away from his face, just for her own satisfaction. What would he do, a man sworn to non-violence? _That is a cruel thought._ She resigned to be content with never knowing the truth. Until tomorrow, she decided not to wonder.


	3. Chapter 3

The pungent smell of the dark dye filled her nostrils as she leant over the tub, tightly shutting her eyes. The clear water in the tub turned into a muddy brown color when the water sluiced through her hair. Maddy rubbed her hard fingers indelicately throughout her scalp, working the dye in to cover every inch. Alayne’s neck ached from the unnatural posture. This had become a routine of theirs that occurred at least once a month. Her hair would be dyed a dark, chestnut brown in the early hours of the morning, roughly dried with a washcloth right after, and then styled to her liking. Today she had chosen to have it parted down the center with two braids pulling the long hair behind her ears as it cascaded down her back. A jeweled clip held the braids in place.

“It looks lovely, m’lady,” Maddy said, making minor adjustments here and there.

“Yes, I quite like it,” she said, analyzing herself in the mirror. “Thank you.”

Down in the dining hall, the aroma of fried dough and cooked sausages filled the air. Visitors and inhabitants came and went as they pleased, enjoying the array of choices offered for the morning meals. Alayne sat alone as she broke her fast near the buffet, keeping an observant eye about the hall for her betrothed. She had remembered to bring the favor this time, tucked it away neatly into the sleeve of her olive gown. 

Harry Hardyng appeared a few mouthfuls later, beautiful blue eyes shining with mirth. He wore a light blue doublet with white trimming, the colors of house Arryn. Two young knights accompanied him on either side. One, Alayne recognized, was the comely Ser Byron, an elegant man whose thick blonde mane grew past his shoulders. The other was Ser Lyn Corbray, wearing a roughspun tunic with the three ravens and three hearts that was his sigil sown upon the breast. He said something to Byron that made him laugh and glance at Alayne. A nervous current swept through her. _Oh, none of that, please,_ she thought. _I must appear confident._

She stood as they approached, as was courteous. “Good morrow, sers,” she smiled.

“My lady.” Ser Byron swept up her hand and placed a delicate kiss on its back. Lyn rolled his eyes. “What better way to start my day than to kiss the hand of the most lovely maid in the Vale,” Byron said.

Ser Lyn gave a huff. “Have you never been to Heart’s Home? We’ve plenty just like her.” Her smile wavered.

“My man,” said Harry, patting Lyn on the back somewhat roughly. “He jests. He is simply jealous that I have won your favor and he hasn’t.”

Alayne straightened. “It is of no matter,” she said, choosing to ignore Lyn. _And neither is_ he _of any matter._ “I remembered your favor this time.” She moved to extract it but Lyn spoke again.

“Have I offended the lady?”

“That depends, ser, did you mean to offend?” she retorted.

“Careful,” Harry said, looking at Lyn. “She’s a clever one.”

_One?_ Alayne lowered her hands to her sides.

“No, do go on,” Lyn said. “Give him his favor. And while you’re at it, why don’t you give me and Ser Bryon here your favor, too.” He grinned at Harry. “To share is only fair, isn’t that so?”

_He means to embarrass me in front of my betrothed,_ she quickly realized. _Well, two can play this game._

She smiled sweetly. “Even a bastard such as myself would never think to favor a landless, upjumped squire.” She patted his arm pityingly. “Common sense, ser.”

“Ha ha! She is clever and funny, too, my Alayne,” Harry said, attempting to ease the tension and failing miserably. Ser Lyn had the look of murder upon him.

Ser Byron grabbed her hand again. “My lady,” he cooed. “I am not landless…” She laughed. Ser Byron was a poor hedge knight, and hedge knights often claimed the whole of Westeros as their own.

Harry grabbed her by the shoulder and led her away. “Forget them,” he said. “I’ve got to go make ready for the lists, soon.” He looked at her expectantly.

This was not how Alayne had pictured granting him her favor. _Damn that Lyn Corbray,_ she thought. _He is still sour about that comment I made about his brother._ He would definitely prove a problem for her in the future. She pulled out the length of white lace and presented it to him. His blue eyes held hers as he took it, then he leaned in and placed a chaste kiss on her cheek. 

“Go on, now, off to practice,” she said.

He laughed. “You think I need practice?”

She rolled her eyes. “Ride well, Ser Harrold.” 

He clutched at the lace. “I think I will.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The young man had just barely managed to stay in his saddle. Alayne was on the edge of her seat in anticipation, watching as Harry the Heir miraculously righted himself atop his horse. His shield had been knocked off of his arm in the tilt and his squire now rushed to retrieve it as he recovered from the collision. _That was so close,_ she thought. Mya’s strong hand was clutching hers. In just a few moments, the checkered flag was raised and then dropped, and the knights were already gaining speed at each other for the third tilt. Lance held steady, Harry hardly even flinched upon impact. Alayne shot to her feet when Ser Uther Shett the Sisterman landed in the hard dirt. The crowds were deafening.

He took off his helm, revealing his handsome, laughing face, dirty blonde hair plastered to his forehead in sweat. She waved at him when their eyes met and her heart gave a flutter. 

“Oh, how I envy you, Alayne,” Randa whined. 

“He is gallant, isn’t he,” she said, not knowing how else to respond.

“He may have made it this far but there’s not a _chance_ he’ll be winning wings,” Mya said. “He’s too green.”

“Care to place a wager?” Alayne teased.

Mya scrunched up her face. Without realizing it, Alayne found that Harry had ridden his mount up near the stands, and now sat astride his horse in her line of view. There was jeering and whistling from folk nearby as Alayne descended the steps through to the first row. She felt a blush blossoming from her chest.

“You rode gallantly, ser,” she called when she neared, extending her hand.

He took it. “Enough to wear your favor for tomorrow’s joust?” He kissed the back of her hand.

“I’ll consider it,” she said playfully.

As she made her way back up to her seat, she was uncomfortably aware that nearly all eyes were upon her, especially those of the honored guests seated upon the dais. Sweetrobin looked to be brooding. _Please, just don’t start shaking._ He had been doing so well these past few days. Lady Waynwood was seated a few paces to his right wearing a comfortable, dark purple gown and brown, fur-trimmed cloak about her slim shoulders. She gave her a gentle smile. Petyr Baelish sat beside her, his elbow rested on the armrest, hand rubbing at the short bristles on his chin. He had an unreadable expression on his face, but Alayne smiled at him all the same. 

When Ser Lothor Brune galloped onto the field, he was wearing a favor.

“Yours?” Alayne asked, speaking to Mya.

“Why not,” she said, shrugging.

His opponent then made his appearance onto the field. Ser Talbot Dunfeld bore his sigil of a sunset between two snowcapped mountains upon his shield. Ser Lothor made short work of him, sending a thrust with his lance so hard that poor Ser Talbot was down before he knew it, his helm askew. Mya was hollering and clapping in the stands. Randa and Alayne laughed at her uninhibited enthusiasm. 

After Ser Lothor came Ser Byron astride his brown and white spotted horse. The first tilt was a miss, but on the second Ser Byron was able to twist in his saddle just so, costing Ser Torr Devereux his chances at winning. Women all across the stands could not contain their sighs. Next, Ser Lyn Corbray appeared, and Alayne darkly wished he would lose this time. But Ser Lyn was a formidable competitor, and was able to easily unhorse Ser Hunwald of Oaklane in their first tilt. Alayne stood to leave as the spectators were applauding. She had already watched Harry compete and that was as far as her interests lay, but Randa stopped her by laying a hand on her arm.

“Alayne, look.” Her expression was a mixture of surprise and fascination.

Alayne turned to see that same mystery knight, who was not a knight but a brother of the Quiet Isle. He strode into the clearing atop his black stallion, bearing the shield with the white, mouthless face. What was worse was that he still wore Alayne’s favor from yesterday’s joust. 

“What does he think he’s doing?” She said with a tone of irritation, hardly realizing she had said something out loud. 

“Trying to get your attention, of course!” Mya could barely contain her giggling.

 _But he confessed to the Septon,_ she thought. _Why is he still doing this, against his own gods?_ Alayne felt embarrassed and angry. No two men should have a lady’s favor. It was considered unseemly. 

“This is why you shouldn’t trust anyone who would hide their identity,” Myranda said. 

“I never trusted him, I just gave him my favor,” Alayne retorted. “And I told him it was just for the other day.” Now she was getting even more irritated just thinking about it.

“Oh, Alayne, you naughty, _naughty_ girl,” Mya teased.

“Stop,” she said, not in any mood for japes. “Please, you’re the only two who know he carries my favor. Don’t tell anyone, least of all Harry.” _Just what I need, more secrets to keep from my betrothed._ She never knew she could resent a speechless, anonymous stranger as much as she did now.

Alayne rejoiced to see his opponent was Ser Sigbert Firestone, bearing the image of glowing cinders on his shield. She knew then how the tilt would end. Ser Sigbert had a reputation as a skilled horseman and fighter. _Please, take him out so that he doesn’t pull this stunt again on the morrow._ The flag was raised and dropped in one breath, and the horsemen were galloping towards each other. Although the brother was strong and about two stone heavier than him, Ser Sigbert was quick and cunning. There was a communal gasp the moment before impact, but it was a miss; both men remained in their saddles. The men recovered for a few moments and regained their positions. Again, the flag was raised and dropped, and they were urging their mounts on furiously. Alayne watched with baited breath. In what seemed like a fraction of a second, the brother had moved his lance just an inch far enough, slipping just past Ser Sigbert’s shield and pounding straight onto his breastplate, sending both man and lance careening onto the ground.

Alayne’s heart fell with him.

“Now _that_ is a man I’d put my coin on,” Randa said as she clapped. “Good choice, Alayne.”

She gave an exasperated sigh as an answer. “I’ve had enough of this,” she said. “I’ll see you ladies this evening.” Alayne made her way past the jeering crowd of people, not caring to wait and watch as he did his victory lap in the yard.

 _I’ve got to put an end to this, somehow._ She could not fathom how a skilled tourney knight such as he could be so uncouth and disrespectful of a lady’s wishes. _First Lyn ruined my morning, now this brother has ruined my afternoon._ Mya may have been right. He may have been trying to get her attention. _Well, he has garnered the wrong kind of attention from me,_ she thought angrily. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On any other day, Sweetrobin would spend the late afternoon hours reviewing his lessons from Maester Colemen. He would practice his writing and reading, as well as study the histories and mathematics and languages. Alayne would often join him as a supplementary tutor once the Maester had completed his work. Because of the tourney, however, Petyr had allowed Sweetrobin a brief holiday from his studies. Alayne sat with the boy now in his spacious solar, humoring him with a game of cyvasse. These days he had been better, suffering no shaking fits at all since the day before the tourney, now three days past. 

“The Elder Brother has been tending to me,” he said. “I quiet like him. He has magic hands! He rubs and pokes my back and head and recites some strange words I don’t understand.” He moved a piece across the board.

Alayne smiled. “You have been looking stronger, Sweetrobin. I am proud of you for being so receptive of the brother.”

“I don’t think Maester Colemen likes him much. He would not let him give me my sweetmilk.”

Alayne looked at him, trying to conceal her shock. _No sweetmilk? Magic hands, indeed._ “That is excellent, my lord!” She moved one of her soldiers, but realized too late she’d be trapped. 

“I know. Soon I’ll be strong enough to best that Harrold Hardyng myself in the joust,” Robert said. Alayne inwardly groaned. They played in amiable silence for a few moments. He had failed to see where he could have trapped her, so Alayne made her way around his knights toward his queen. Then he spoke again.

“I think it’s time I should be called the Lord Protector. I’m tired of being told what to do by stepfather.”

“You already are the Lord Protector, Sweetrobin.”

“No, I mean the _real_ Lord Protector. I don’t need a surrogate any longer,” he declared. “I can claim my birthright if I so wish. King Artys Arryn was young when he ruled the Vale, too.” Sweetrobin was ever reminiscent of tales of the Winged Knight.

“That was three hundred years ago. And you’re not a King, you’re a Lord,” she said. “Where have you gotten this idea from?”

He visibly hesitated. “I don’t know.”

Now she was intrigued. “Robert, you know you can tell your Alayne anything. Don’t you trust me?”

“I do, but…”

“But?” The game appeared to be completely forgotten.

He sighed and glanced down. “I’ve received some letters…” he admitted.

“From who?” Her voice was firm.

“Bronze Yohn Royce.”

“Sweetrobin! Why haven’t you informed anyone of this? You know how he means to depose and kill my father! He’ll have me killed along with him, do you want that?”

“No! But he said that as the rightful Lord Protector I can order _him_ out and still keep you! They would all listen to me because I am an _Arryn_ and he isn’t. Don’t you see, Alayne, we can be married after all!”

She sighed, rubbed at her temple. _Now this? The gods have cast their shadow upon me this day._ “Robert, you do not understand. The people will not see you marry a bastard. They’ll kill me before we ever have a chance-”

“Then I’ll make them all FLY!” He smashed his fist on the board, chest heaving as the pieces went flying.

Alayne stared, speechless. _He should be shaking,_ she thought. _Why is he not shaking?_ She reached out to him and soothed him, sitting him back down in the chair. She knelt before him.

“Sweetrobin, I need to confiscate your letters. Hush, hush! Please, I need them, and you must stop entertaining the lord Yohn. Do it for me, please? If you love me.”

He looked down, incredibly sad. “Alright,” he finally said.

“Show me where they are.”

Alayne was at a loss at how these letters had managed to evade Petyr’s knowledge. It would be impossible to interrogate every one of Robert’s servants, and this was likely a concerted effort with a chain of people involved within the castle. Suddenly, Alayne did not feel as safe in the Vale any longer. _The sooner I am married to Harry, the sooner I am safe._ With the letters tucked under her arm, she traveled to the Lord Protector’s tower, meaning to tell Petyr everything.

“Father,” she called when she knocked on his door. “May I enter?”

A servant opened the door from within the solar. Across his desk, seated in her violet dress from earlier, was Lady Waynwood. Alayne tried to suppress her nerves, not knowing what to do with the letters now that Petyr wasn’t alone. He sat behind his desk, his elbows on the table as he leaned towards the Lady Waynwood. They were both drinking wine, Arbor Gold. 

“Alayne, how good to see you,” she said.

“My lady,” Alayne curtsied. “I do hope I am not interrupting.”

“Nonsense, daughter,” said Petyr. “What is it you need, sweetling?”

There was no way she could hide it. She said the only thing she could say. “I’ve come to deliver some letters.”

“Well, bring them here then,” he lifted an eyebrow at her, extended his hand. She placed them there as casually as she could.

“Curious,” said Lady Waynwood. “The Lord Protector’s seals are broken.”

“They’re, ah-old letters, my lady,” Alayne managed. “My father often leaves the unimportant ones lying about. The Night’s Watch are ever redundant in their pursuits,” she laughed. _Shut up, now. You’re trying too hard._ “Ser Wallace and Ser Roland rode well today. They are both very skilled with the lance.”

“That is kind of you to say,” she said. “What of my ward? Has he behaved himself?”

Alayne blushed and looked at Petyr before she realized that was a childish thing to do. “He has been the soul of courtesy, my lady.”

Lady Waynwood gave her a side smile. “I am glad to hear that. I hope you continue to get along well.”

“As do I,” said Petyr, his pointy beard wiggling as he smiled.

“I should be going now. The feast will begin soon and I will need to help with preparations. My lady, father,” she curtsied again as they nodded. She scampered out of the room as quickly as was courteous. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alayne retreated to her quarters to find that something good had come from this day after all. Petyr had had yet another dress made for her, this one the color of deep burgundy with a gold trimming and lacing on the front and bell-shaped sleeves. The bodice was cut in a line across the chest, pressing her breasts in a way that made the shadows hug the curves there. It was decorated with a pattern of small, golden mockingbirds in flight. Alayne loved it more than any other she had yet received. 

When she entered the Great Hall later, she did not feel like a bastard. _I feel like myself,_ she thought. It was peculiar. 

The courses that night involved an array of fried seafood for appetizers, seasoned to taste, followed by a main course of stuffed, braised veal breast accompanied by vegetables and baked potatoes. The desert had been a layered cheesecake glazed with strawberry jam. Alayne shared a slice with Harry as they sat together late into in the feast’s procession. He was wearing a black and red doublet that was fitted against his slim but muscled form. She was on her third glass of Dornish Red. 

“Really, I thought you were done for,” she laughed. “I thought, _Gods, he’s going to fall and break his head open like an egg, then what’ll I do?_ ” 

Harry shook his head, laughing and setting his spoon down. “I did it on purpose to see if you actually cared about me,” he japed. “As soon as I saw the look on your face, I thought, _well, that worked. Now time to get out of this!_ ” 

Alayne burst out laughing and it made her head spin slightly. “I think I’ve had too much to drink.”

“You like Dornish Red?” He swished his glass. “It matches the color of your gown.” His blue eyes roved over her body. She felt somewhat exposed. 

“It does, doesn’t it,” she said, looking down. All she could see were her pert breasts.

“Alayne…”

“Yes?” There was a strange tone to his voice.

“You are so very beautiful. You’re making things very… difficult for me.”

She was confused. She had not done anything wrong that she could think of. _Does he know about the favor?_ “I apologize if I’ve offended you, ser.”

“No, no, Alayne, listen. You’re making things difficult,” he leaned in closer, whispered in her ear. “You’re making it hard for me.”

The young woman sat up straighter, a blush creeping up to her face. She knew enough about the marriage bed that she knew what happened when men were aroused. She remembered another marriage night a long time ago. She thought about what to say, how to bewitch him.

“That is an unfortunate circumstance to be caught in,” she smiled.

He paused as he looked down at her. “Help me, Alayne,” he begged.

She moved up, met his lips with hers. They tried to drive deeper but she pulled back. “I think I’d like to save my maidenhead for our bed as husband and wife.”

He seemed to be considering her for a moment.

“You can save your maidenhead and still please me,” he ventured.

Alayne looked at him askance. “And what of pleasing me?” She felt offended that he would even consider asking her this.

“I-I thought-”

She got up. “We’ve both had too much to drink, ser. I’ll forgive you this slight,” she said, somewhat reluctantly. “I will see you on the morrow. Good night,” she said.

“Wait, Alayne, forgive me, that was rude of me. Let me escort you to your chambers.” 

She knew what he might try to do if she allowed him that, so she politely rejected his offer. “I already have forgiven you, and I am well enough on my own, ser. Good night, again,” she said with finality. _He’s drunk,_ she tried to reassure herself. _He is not behaving as himself._ The Great Hall was slowly emptying out for the night, the people exhausted after celebrating all these nights in a row. There were wine bottles and dirty plates being collected by the maids and servants. An unconscious Ser Uther was being held up by his squire as the boy tried to drag him to his quarters. Alayne was exhausted, too, but mostly from the day she had had. She did not think it could get any worse until she spotted a masked brother making his way out of the hall. A slight limp on his left leg gave him away instantly.

 _Yes, I have you now._ She picked up her skirts and stepped quickly after him, following him out towards the inner ward in a dimly lit passageway. 

“You there!” she called. “Halt!”

He did as she said. Turned around. She could not see his face, but she assumed he had seen her nonetheless. 

“Don’t think I did not notice that stunt you pulled in the joust today.” She waited. Then remembered he was sworn to silence. Cursing herself, she continued. 

“I forbid you to wear my favor anymore. I don’t know why you wore it again after I told you it was just for the other day. Were you trying to get my attention? Nod or shake your head, please.”

He looked down at her. He wasn’t wearing his cloak tonight. Instead, he donned a roughspun brown tunic and some dirty old breeches he had worked with. A scarf still covered his whole head, but the tunic hugged his broad build, and his rough, callused hands were exposed, now hanging limp at his sides. It seemed strange to have a man of his stature be unarmed as he was. 

“Answer me, please,” she said.

He nodded.

“What?” she asked, exasperated. “Why? Why do you want my attention? You’re a brother, a holy man.” She thought. “I need my favor back.”

He shook his head.

Her eyes grew wide. “You rude, inconsiderate _bastard_!” she yelled. Then she realized her mistake.

The brother crossed his arms and leant on his good leg. She could not see his face but she just knew he was relishing in the irony of her words. A madness came over her and she made a grab for the scarf. 

The man caught her wrist in a vice-like grip. His tall height loomed above her and some nostalgic fear rippled through her body. His other hand gripped her chin when he lowered his head.

“I knew you were brave,” he grated. “Didn’t think you were still stupid.”

 _That voice… is so-_ but she did not dare follow where her thoughts might lead. She wanted to scream but she was afraid of what he might do. He held her, gripping her wrist and chin so hard she thought he might leave bruises. His warm breath ghosted against her face.

“Let go of me.”

He did.

“Who _are_ you?” she demanded, rubbing at her wrist.

“It isn’t safe for you to know,” he growled.

“I’ll tell my father. He’ll have you expelled from the castle in an instant.”

“You won’t be doing any of that.”

She furrowed her brow, taking a step backward. “And why not?”

He laughed heartily. It was a harsh sound. He stepped forward, leaned in. 

“You even think to turn me in, I’ll turn you in right back.”

Silence. _How could he…?_

He laughed again, this time more lightly. “The Lady Sansa Stark, right under these bloated bastards’ noses and they couldn’t sniff you out.” He touched a lock of her brown hair. “You’ve become a talented liar.”

Sansa stared at him, beginning to feel faint.

“I know who you are…” she whispered.

She noticed that his breathing had quickened and he held a wide armed stance. “It isn’t safe,” he repeated. “Go back to your cage.” With that, he turned on his heel and left. 

Sansa did not know how long she had been standing there in the darkness, but she knew that as she did, a thousand thoughts ran through her mind. Was this the same man she had thought to be dead for three years now? Was this the man who had come to her chambers that night of the Battle of Blackwater Bay, stealing a kiss and leaving her nothing but a bloody cloak in his wake? She remembered how she had wondered for a long time afterward, wondered if she had made the right choice not to leave with him. 

Or was he the Mad Dog of Saltpans who had laid wreckage on countless villages and innocent lives, as the rumors had told? If so, she could absolutely not trust him and should report him to Petyr immediately. 

But what if he were to find out if she told Petyr? If he revealed her identity, she became a fugitive of the crown. People would be vying for her capture. She would be removed from Petyr’s protection, taken from the Vale and deposited right onto Queen Cersei’s doorstep to be executed for regicide, as she had so been framed. _No,_ she shuddered as she climbed the steps back up to her chambers. _I won’t tell a soul._ Some part of her did not believe he would let that sort of harm come to her, though. And if that was the case, she wanted to tell Petyr even less.

Within the comfort of her chambers, she unlaced her restrictive burgundy gown. She let it puddle to the floor, stepping out of it in her corset and smallclothes. Loosening the corset, she pulled it up from over her head. She felt like she could breath again. Maddy had laid her nightgown out on her bed, but instead of putting it on she went to her mirror, analyzed herself. Her hair was still brown, not auburn. But her eyes were the same, the girl was the same. Hair color changed nothing. She was older now, she knew, as she looked at her shapely breasts, the curve at her hips. But she was still Sansa Stark, heir to Winterfell, and nothing made her feel like that girl the way being held by _that man_ did. 

She still could not bring herself to say his name.


	4. Chapter 4

Lord Grafton’s booming voice could be heard from outside Petyr Baelish’s solar. Alayne let herself in, carrying a tray of glasses and a pitcher of honeyed Arbor Gold for the men as they broke their fast. 

“The merchants are clamoring to buy, and the lords are clamoring to sell,” Lord Grafton was saying. “How am I to stop that, my lord?”

“Post guardsmen on the docks. If need be, seize the ships. How does not matter, so long as no food leaves the Vale.”

“These prices, though,” protested Lord Belmore, “these prices are more than fair.”

“You say more than fair, my lord. I say less than we would wish. Wait. If need be, buy the food yourself and keep it stored. Winter is coming. Prices must go higher.”

“Perhaps,” said Belmore, doubtfully.

“Bronze Yohn will not wait, ” Grafton complained. “He need not ship through Gulltown, he has his own ports. Whilst we are hoarding our harvest, Royce and the other Lords Declarant will turn theirs into silver, you may be sure of that.”

“Let us hope so,” said Petyr. “When their granaries are empty, they will need every scrap of that silver to buy sustenance from us.”

“Lady Alayne,” Lord Grafton said. “You look bright-eyed this morning.”

“You are kind to say so, my lord.”

Alayne continued to fill their glasses and clear their plates as they discussed the economy of the Vale. Lord Belmore was one of the only Lord Declarants who had attended the Corbray wedding at Gulltown, fast becoming one of Petyr’s strongest allies and making it known throughout the Vale. Both he and Lord Grafton were reluctant to raise the prices of their stock with winter on their heels, with good reason. But Alayne knew her father, and he had other, broader prospects to consider. 

Soon after the men had left, Alayne took the opportunity to discuss some pressing matters of her own with Petyr.

“You look unwell, sweetling.” Petyr Baelish, Lord of Harrenhall, Lord Paramount of the Trident, and Lord Protector of the Eyrie and Vale of Arryn, looked up from the letter he had been reading. _Good, he is reading Bronze Yohn’s letters,_ she thought. He wore a blue velvet doublet with grey sleeves that matched his woolen breeches. The mockingbird brooch was fastened to his collar. 

“I woke with a headache,” she mostly lied as she took the chair Lord Grafton had been sitting in, finding it still warm. Truthfully, she had not slept until deep into the night, so haunted by her thoughts had she been.

“Dornish Red will do that to you. Take care not to indulge too much in the evenings, it is important that you keep a clear head with the Hardyng boy.” His eyes scanned her face. “And have your maid do something about those dark circles. Your face should be perfect for the final joust today. Harry will want to gaze into your eyes as you comfort him on his loss.”

“How are you so sure he will lose? I heard he won the tourney held by Lord Royce at the Gates of the Moon.”

He showed her a pitying smirk, like a man would to his dog. “My sweet, I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention, but we’ve had some fierce competitors grace our halls for this tourney. Some of them who prefer to remain nameless,” he furrowed his brow somewhat, appearing to be in deep thought. He played with his pointy little beard. “That tourney at the Gates was full of squires and green boys. He has been lucky to make it this far.”

Sansa had tried not to give herself any false hope that Harry should win the tourney, let alone win wings. But the prospect of such an outcome was fast becoming more and more likely.

Changing the subject, she asked, “Are you expecting another siege?” referring to the conversation with Grafton.

He gave her an inquisitive look. “You are more and more my daughter every passing day. It’s entirely within the realm of possibility. The Lords Declarant are fast to sell their granaries for a quick penny when the need calls for it.”

“And hoarding your store in Gulltown will force them to have to purchase from you,” she said, feeling a hint of pride.

“Just so,” he said.

“Father,” she hated to call him that. “What will happen to those knights who win wings? Other than be assigned to Sweetrobin’s personal guard, of course.”

The man reclined in his oak-and-leather chair. “They’ll be securely employed and paid steady wages for three years, unless they die or are dismissed for any reason. They’ll have comfortable quarters here in the Vale.”

“I had read before,” she said, “that the knights of the Kingsguard were sworn to take no wife…”

“You still think Harry will win wings,” he sighed, setting his hands on the table. “Let’s say he finishes in the top eight and by virtue wins his position on the guard,” he humored. “The worst case would be that you marry Harry and remain here for three years more. However, we know how Sweetrobin is towards his cousin. He will likely dismiss him and name another before Harrold spends the next three years by his side. If not, his ailment will dissolve the guard before we even have to lift a finger.”

He had an expression as if he would say something more, but instead he said, “Does that settle your pretty little nerves?”

“It does,” she said. Sweetrobin did despise his cousin immensely. The ailment, however, seemed to be improving with the help of the Elder Brother. Alayne opted to keep that detail to herself. “I see you’ve read the letters.”

“Yes, you were clever to lie in front of Anya Waynwood,” he said. “You know how these Lords Declarant are.” He waved one of the parchments. “I had not known Bronze Yohn to make such a desperate attempt as to appeal to the little Lord. It is nothing to concern yourself over, daughter. Now, until his sixteenth nameday, I am the Lord Protector. The soldiers and knights that grace these halls are under my employ.” 

Bronze Yohn was the mightiest of the Lords Declarant, lord of Runestone and the chief of the senior branch of house Royce. The man often wore a breastplate engraved with ancient runes to ward off evil. He was a dangerous man and not to be underestimated. 

“What of those servants who had the letters delivered to Sweetrobin? Something must be done,” she mentioned. “Perhaps I should alternate the shifts of the servants.” _Cersei did that to me once,_ she thought, _long ago when I was a hostage in King's Landing._

“That may well work. Have Maddy inform you on Gretchel and Gretchel inform you on Maddy,” he advised. 

_Just as you have Osmund Kettleblack inform you on Lothor Brune, and vise versa._ Her pretender father had clever tactics.

“How fares your courtship with Harry,” he asked.

Alayne debated whether she should be honest, but her curiosity got the best of her. “I cannot tell whether it is good or bad, but he made an indecent proposal to me during the feast last night. He was drunk…”

“That is more than good. Did you agree to what he asked?”

“No,” she admitted. _I didn’t want to._ “I didn’t think it was proper.”

“Sweetling, leave the propriety for stubborn lords and crones. As a woman you were born with your weapons. Use them, lest you forget your betrothal is contingent upon Harry’s choosing you and not the other way around.”

“The validity of another marriage is contingent upon my maidenhead,” she retorted, barely hiding her annoyance. 

“Who said anything about your maidenhead? You have other weapons at your disposal. Come, give your father a kiss.”

Alayne felt as though her heart was at her feet. _Please, let this be quick._ She stood, dragged her feet over to where he sat. He abruptly pulled her down onto his lap, his thin lips smacking onto hers. The whiskers of his mustache pricked her skin.

“A _real_ kiss, Alayne,” he said as he held her tightly by the arm. Before she knew it his lips were back on hers, and his tongue probed at her mouth. She opened hers, letting him do his sweeps while she lamely complied.

“I do hope you show that Harry boy more enthusiasm than that,” he said, barely masking his irritation. “See to it that you have a talk with the Lord Nestor’s daughter. I hear she knows a thing or two about her own weapons. As does half the court.” 

“As you say, father.” He finally released her, and she was out of his solar without so much as another word. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The viewing stands were already mostly full by the time Alayne made it out to the fields. She had chosen to wear an old gown of her Aunt Lysa’s, one with a dark blue fabric and deep red inlay, which she judged was hardly noticeable. It was one of the only simple dresses her late aunt kept in her wardrobe from her youth. Servants were winding their way through the thick of the crowds carting snacks of nuts, fried dough, and dried fruit to any of those who preferred to eat while they watched. Little Wiley sat guard to the fresh fruit stand on the far side of the yard, near where the three quintains had been set up. Further out, she could see the tents and small cook fires of the settlements where the knights prepared for the tournament. A particularly red-faced squire was lugging a load of mail and armor in that direction. Closer to her, a holy brother was sweeping the dais while it was still empty, and she thought upon him. 

“Alayne! Over here!” Lord Nestor’s daughter had reserved a place for her to the left of the dais on the second row of the stands. Myranda’s thick brown curls and buxom chest bounced as she waved in her direction. 

“Such a pity it has come to an end so soon,” she said as Alayne seated herself. “I did enjoy how my suitors vied for my favor nightly. I shall have to find some new form of entertainment when they leave.”

“Maybe some handsome knights will win wings,” Alayne offered, “that way they’ll still be around for some time.”

“I’m sure you’re hoping the same for Ser Harrold Hardyng. I can only hope for Ser Byron, although he is no proper suitor for me he does have a way with words. All the others are either too old or already married.”

“I’ve an idea,” Alayne said. “Let us share your bed tonight and catch up on all we’ve missed these nights.” She had a bed big enough to fit four side by side.

“You haven’t forgotten about my pillow tax, have you?” she smiled, a genuine smile. Myranda required that any girl who shared her bed would have to reveal all the wicked things they have done, or want to do.

“I believe I am long overdue.”

All around them, the people had gotten to their feet in cheers and applause as the little Lord Robert made his way to the dais, led atop his horse by a young squire who seemed to about the same age as him. Upon his pearly white doublet was embroidered a sky blue pattern of the falcon and moon of House Arryn with inlays of white-gold that shined in the midday sun. _He will likely insist on keeping this one on for the feast as well._ It was a very beautiful doublet. And if Sweetrobin really wanted something, he would fight and kick and scream until he had it. 

Soon, Sweetrobin, the Lord Protector and his leal bannermen were all seated upon the dais. The musicians still played from their post on the right of the stands, until they were finished and the trumpets rang announcing the sixteen competitors for the day. Eight of these knights would win wings. _And only one would be named champion._ Her heart gave a flutter. She remembered a girl long ago who had received a rose by the fair Knight of Flowers. She was no Queen of Love and Beauty, but it was a token of acknowledgement nonetheless. Later, there would be a celebratory melee for all the fathers, uncles, sons and visitors to take part in one final time. Alayne considered attending this one since she had missed the others.

The tourney commenced with Ser Lothor Brune unhorsing the knight of Wickenden, Ser Edmund Waxley, in the second tilt, earning himself the first pair of wings. Alayne joined in the cheering, wondering where Mya was and how she would be feeling at this moment. There was a good chance Ser Lothor would be named champion by the end of the day. 

Next, and to no one’s surprise, Ser Byron was defeated by Ser Lyn Corbray. Although he was Petyr’s catspaw, she did not enjoy the thought of having Corbray so near her Sweetrobin for the next few years. _Petyr did say how he preferred the company of young boys._ The thought made her nauseated. 

As soon as Alayne heard the announcement of her betrothed’s name, she gave a loud cheer. She was happy to see that he still wore her favor, although she did not outright grant it to him a second time. His opponent made his way across the field on his chestnut stallion, Ser Mychel Redfort. Not a moment had passed before the flag was raised and dropped, and the men galloped towards one another. Lances steady, horses powering forward, the two knights met with a loud clash when Mychel’s lance punched Harry square in the chest. Harry was wobbling about on his horse. The mount was running amok in a zig-zag across the yard. Something was wrong with one of his greaves. Having one leg stuck by some ties there he was struggling to slow his horse down. Some squires chased after him and managed to slow the horse before having Harry cut down from his saddle. 

There was some commotion in the crowds as people spoke loudly of what they had seen and what thought they’d seen and asked unanswerable questions. Alayne was confused as well, worried about Harry’s well-being. Petyr was leaning forward in his seat, his hands firm on the armrests. The squires and a few other knights and bannermen were analyzing the greaves on Harry’s legs and the saddle on his mount. After what felt like ages, the announcer then called the crowds to attention, declaring that the Hardyng boy’s equipment had been tampered with. 

“Thusly, the judges have elected to disqualify Ser Mychel of House Redfort for misconduct in the form of an attempt at unfairly obstructing his opponent. Ser Harrold of House Hardyng goes on to win wings and compete for the championship.”

The last few words were drowned out by the frenzy of the spectators. Alayne looked past them at Petyr, hoping for some form of reassurance. He was busy speaking to Sweetrobin as the boy had slid down nearly off of his high-backed chair, arms crossed and face pouting in frustration. Maester Colemen was by his side, and Alayne was glad to see that the Elder Brother was there as well. _He will prevent any shaking fits,_ she knew. Ser Mychel Redfort was red with rage and shame as he argued with one of the judges, to no avail. 

Alayne could hardly keep her thoughts straight before Ser Eustace of House Hunter had Ser Dardan Wynmen squirming in the dirt in the middle of the yard. Ser Castriot of Gulltown, a hedge night, was soon to follow him at the hand of Ser Albar Royce. _It appears Petyr is collecting a valuable group of hostages for himself,_ Alayne could not help but think. She wondered for a moment if Ser Castriot and Dardan had been paid to throw the match. Ser Eustace was heir to House Hunter, and Ser Albar was Lord Nestor Royce’s heir and Myranda’s only brother. 

_Add to that group Ser Roland Waynwood._ The grandson of Lady Anya had managed to unhorse Ser Egbert Vitalis after a long joust that lasted for five rounds. Sweetrobin would be getting some young and noble knights about him to look up to after all. _Mayhap he will make friends with Harry once he gets to know him better,_ she hoped. 

The announcer called for a mystery knight, the Maiden’s Defender. The knight led his horse out onto the field as his squire held back, the skinny boy with straight, thin hair she had seen carrying the load of armor earlier. Alayne had always found the knights shield to be beautifully carved, the likeness of the Maiden with her hands placed peacefully over the pommel of a sword. He was a large night, almost as tall as the… the Silent Rider. She did not have an inkling of who he was, but she knew he would win wings. And he did. His opponent lay strewn across the dirt, having landed on his belly. 

She knew who would be called next since there were only two remaining knights on the lists. _Well, really there is only one knight._ The thought almost brought a smile to her lips, but that had died when she saw the Silent Rider had heeded her demands and not worn her favor again. Some foreign part of her was disheartened at that, though she could not understand why. 

Alayne had accepted the fact that this mystery knight would win wings long before he had his opponent on the ground. She remembered the tourney of the Hand very well. Even with an injured left leg, the mystery knight who was not a mystery was as intimidating as he had ever been with a lance. Ser Harrison Elbert had all but climbed down his horse rather than put up anything that could have been considered a fight. 

Thus, Sandor Clegane was the last to be named to the young Lord Robert’s winged guard.

The musicians took up their song for the intersession. Next would come the final joust for the championship of the tournament, and the competitors needed time to eat and recover as they and their squires retreated towards the settlements. In the meantime, Alayne and Randa sought a light midday meal of their own in the lower hall. 

“Curious that last mystery knight did not wear your favor a third time. I wonder what that was about.” Randa was dipping a piece of warm bread into her cup of yogurt. That was all she would have until the feast. Her maester had advised that she lighten her meals if she wanted to shed some weight.

Alayne was altogether too nervous to eat. She merely sipped on a cup of hot lemon flavored tea with a spoon of honey.

“I found him out and requested that he not wear it,” Alayne said.

“ _That_ is interesting indeed. Who was he? Was he handsome, perchance?” 

“I wouldn’t know. He’s a brother from the Quiet Isle. His face was shrouded.” It was not wholly a lie.

Randa looked surprised, which was a rare sight. “Never would I have guessed such a thing.” She took a bite of her bread. “That snake Mychel Redfort truly did himself in out there. He had no need to cheat! Although he has cheated before…” she said, referring to how he had mistreated Mya.

“He’s just a scoundrel who got what he deserved.”

“Firey. Now Harry is on Sweetrobin’s guard. He’ll be even harder to resist now that he’ll be living here.”

 _She is teasing,_ Alayne reassured herself. _She always is._ Petyr had been so sure that Harry would not be named onto the guard. For once, he was wrong. She wondered how he had not anticipated the actions of the Redfort knight. The man usually had an uncanny foresight for such things. _He has yet to see the worst of it._ Nervousness clawed at her. She could not guess how Petyr would react to seeing the Hound here at the Gates of the Moon. Surely he would recognize him after all the time spent at King's Landing by Joffrey’s side. 

Her mind’s eye traveled far past Petyr’s initial reaction to the possibilities for the next three years. 

“I heard word from my father that Ser Eustace Hunter has been inquiring about me. What do you think of him? He is a second son so I am not all too eager about the match. Although I have heard word Harlan is out for his brother’s throat after he did in his own father so Eustace does have some promising prospects as an heir.” 

“That is only a rumor.” She sipped her tea as Randa carried on with the latest gossip. Alayne took care to nod or shake her head or follow the appropriate script where the discussion called for it. Her mind was elsewhere entirely. She kept going back to an image of him in his guard’s uniform, tall and imposing with his straight, black hair falling over the scars that riddled half his face. Instead of a white cloak he would don the seal of Arryn, and instead of the foul King Joffrey he would protect her Sweetrobin. The thought was strangely comforting. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The musicians took up their drums to commence the championship tourney. The booming instruments and wooden flutes played the tune of “The Mountains of the Eyrie.” There were no singers, of course. Sweetrobin would not abide them.

“Welcome all again, noble ladies and noble men, honored guests and beloved visitors! The final jousts are upon us,” there was a communal booing at that “but do not despair, we have reserved the best for last! The lists shall be available near the viewing stands closest to the eastern gate, and should any like to place a wager, please visit Lord Simeon where he will be conducting the appropriate procedures.”

The announcer was as short as the Mad Mouse and twice as wide, a mustached man with a loud voice. He wore a mustard colored overcoat and white blouse that frilled at the sleeves. 

“Without further a’do,” he went on, “I present to you the first competitors for the championship – Ser Roland of House Waynwood!” He waited as the crowds cheered and Roland made his way to his post on the western end of the yard. He bore the Waynwood wheel with the broken spoke that was his sigil. “Aaand his opponent – Ser Lyn of House Corbray!” 

The checkered flag was soon raised and dropped, and the large horses were urged to speed along the fence. Their riders held their lances to the steady. Ser Lyn had managed to hit Ser Roland’s gardbrace, splintering his lance, but not enough to unhorse him. The second joust, however, saw Ser Roland nearly snapped at the spine on impact. He was unhorsed and appeared to be unharmed. 

The next joust saw the Maiden’s Defender and Ser Albar Royce compete for the first time. The mystery knight appeared as indefatigable as the best knights while Ser Albar was slouching under the weight of his armor. The Defender made quick work of the boy on the first joust, earning his position in the top four competitors. Such was the case with Ser Lothor Brune as well as he managed to unhorse Ser Eustace of House Hunter with apparent ease. The man with the flared arrows on his sigil had pounded in the dirt in frustration. _Much like a child,_ Alayne thought. 

The young woman’s palms were sweaty as she clapped her hands. 

“The lady worries.” Ser Shadrich the Mad Mouse had appeared by her side when Ser Lothor made his victory lap. He held a kerchief filled with walnuts that he chewed like his namesake. 

“How can you tell?” she asked, politely declining his offer of the salty snack.

“Your brows are knitted and your face is sterner than usual, my lady. Still as beautiful as ever even so.” He turned to watch the field as the announcer called the next two jousters. “Jousting, tuh!” Shadrich shook his head. “The rules are simple, it’s the execution that’s difficult. Riding with about six stone of armor on your back is hard enough, but having to aim a lance as well? And when that lance hits you,” he made a fist where his gardbrace should be. “I liken it to hitting a stone wall at full force. Near knocks the breath out of your lungs. Most times it does.”

That did not do well to ease her nerves. She remembered that poor knight at the Hand’s tourney that had taken a splinter to the neck and bled out before her eyes. She watched with increasing nerves as the two last riders got into position, Ser Harrold Hardyng with his quartered shield and the Silent Rider on his midnight stallion. Truthfully, she was worried. Her betrothed’s opponents had not been anywhere near as skilled as the Hound, and if the lesser knights pushed lances that felt like stone walls she could not fathom how it would feel to take the Hound’s lance. 

She could only hope that he would show mercy to Harry.

The flag dropped to the ground and the horses were spurred on, kicking up clouds of dirt and dust in their wake. She held her breath… and released it at the miss. Both riders slowed their mounts and turned, ready for the next charge. “Ride!” called the announcer, and both men were at it again. _Please, just let it be over quickly,_ she prayed. A loud crash, and Clegane’s lance was splintered as Harry found himself lying on his back in the dirt. 

A couple of squires helped the young knight get to his feet as he retreated back to the settlements. _He is walking,_ she was relieved to see, _that is good._ Some reluctant applause ensued as the mystery knight made his victory lap across the yard, but he made no show of celebration. He passed by where she was seated in the stands. Alayne stared at him and clapped. 

She was suddenly brought back to a distinct memory from her childhood in King's Landing. _You rode gallantly today, Ser Sandor,_ Sansa remembered saying. It was Gregor who had killed that boy with the splinter that day. A chill ran through her as she recounted the story he had told of what his brother had done to him. He had knelt before her in the gravel and held a torch to make her look at the scars. She had been young and scared, and had cried at the sight. The Hound had snuffed out the torch after he saw her cry and waited in silence, waited for her to say something. She remembered being afraid not for herself, but for him. _He was no true knight._

“Alayne, are you quite well? Why are you crying?”

“Pardon?” She wiped at a tear she had not even known was there. 

“Have no fear, dear. I do think Harry will live,” Myranda laughed, squeezing her arm. 

“That’s why I’m crying,” she japed, composing herself. Alayne laughed at Myranda’s mischievous expression. 

“Oh, now I can hardly wait to hear what you have to say tonight.”

The musicians took up playing the tune of “The Conquest by Arryn,” another war-like song that drummed loudly and lively. Sweetrobin was up in the dais, covering his little ears in annoyance. The music did give him headaches sometimes. A crowd of people had gathered around the wagering stand where Lord Simeon was red-faced and yelling loudly, waving about a bag of coin. All the men were calling out their bets and prices. Alayne did not know how anyone made any sense of such chaos. 

“I do admit I could not guess how this tourney will turn out,” Shadrich said beside her. 

“I heard tell Lyn Corbray is a master at the sword. The lance, however…” Alayne did not think he stood a chance.

“Mmph, he will likely finish fourth, no doubt.”

“Sadly for him. Fourth holds no coin,” she said, not sadly at all. Ser Lyn Corbray was ever desperately short of coin. 

“Bah, Lyn Corbray likely has other means of income. Something more stable.”

“How do you mean?” She did not think it possible that the Mad Mouse should know of Littlefinger’s catspaw.

He grinned a ghoulish smile, studied her face. “Gambling, of course,” he blinked. Alayne feigned laughter at that. 

The music stopped then, and the announcer took his place on the podium. _Only three more jousts left and this whole thing will be over._ Her pulse began to race as she waited for the next competitors to be called.

It was to be the Maiden’s Defender against Ser Lyn Corbray. The three ravens clutching three hearts shown on his shield as Lyn made his way to his post. The Maiden’s Defender was as tall and stoic as ever with stick-straight posture that showed no signs of fatigue. 

“I am just desperate for that knight’s unveiling, I tell you,” Myranda said beside her. 

The call was made and the flag was raised. When it fell, the knights bolted towards one another. Their horses ferociously drove forward along the fence. Lances fell to parallel and held steady, pointing at their opponents. A loud clash signified a hit, and suddenly Lyn Corbray was hanging backwards off the saddle of his horse, being dragged in the dirt and getting kicked ceaselessly by the mount’s hind legs. His lance long abandoned, the knight shielded his head from most of the impact while his squire attempted to slow his mount. Although he was still tangled in his saddle by the greave of his armor, being dragged in the dirt was judged to be a loss on his part. 

Loud cheers erupted from the stands as the Maiden’s Defender moved on to the finale. His squire cheered loudly from the sidelines, jumping up and down.

The afternoon sun was beginning to wane, and many servants and maids had left the stands to make preparations for the feast that night. Most would be back in time to see the final joust, but in the meantime there was more room to lounge on the benches now that some were gone. The lords and bannermen remained to watch, of course. Maester Colemen tended to Sweetrobin whenever he needed food or drink. 

Alayne’s heart was thumping as the next names were called, Ser Lothor Brune and the Silent Rider. Alongside one another, the two massive men were indistinguishable in height. _They are matched in strength and skill,_ Alayne thought, fascinated. She hoped Mya was watching somewhere. _Where has that girl got to?_ She would finally be getting the spar she had asked for.

Not an instant before the flag hit the ground were their mounts charging headlong at each other. The muscles in the beasts’ legs rippled with their strength, the fur shining in the late afternoon sun. The lances descended from their heights almost simultaneously, points coming to align with their targets. Alayne gasped as the Hound veered at the impact when Ser Lothor’s lance had snapped on his gardbrace. He regained himself on his saddle effortlessly. The men then faced one another again, and prepared for the next charge. It was a miss, almost deliberately as one man seemed to be gauging the other. On the third tilt, the mystery knight was ready. He charged his mount on, aimed his lance, twisted his shoulder _just so_ causing his lance to stand at a slight upward angle and sending Ser Lothor Brune to his fate in the dirt, shoulder rattling at the impact.

There was loud cheering and yelling from all around her. Alayne took to covering her ears like Sweetrobin as she gaped out towards the field. Clegane rode the customary victory lap, as dispassionate as ever. She could not tell from the helm he wore, but she thought he was looking at her. 

“I thought Lothor had him, for sure,” Myranda said. “Can you believe this farce? All our beautiful, well-trained knights travel far and wide for this tourney only to be outdone by a couple of mystery knights.”

“They rode well,” Alayne said, “far better than any of our own. Besides, how do we know they aren’t our own to begin with?”

“How many other knights do you know of a size with Lothor Brune?”

Alayne chanced a glance at the little Mad Mouse who sat beside her, and they laughed heartily together.

The melody of “Iron Lances” began to play as a brief intercession took place. Alayne hugged her roughspun cloak nearer to her body as a late afternoon chill swept through the stands. It carried the smell of snow with it. Myranda had worn a layered grey dress that laced all the way up to her neck, a brown woolen cloak thrown about her shoulders. _This is like to be the last tourney we witness before winter comes._

At last, the announcer reappeared, this time donning a cloak of his own. Mustard colored to match his jacket. 

“Noble men and noble ladies, the day grows long and our hearts grow eager to finally see the champion of this splendid tourney named!” Some applause rang through the spectators. “I present to you the Maiden’s Defender!”

The large knight made his way to his post, bearing the shield with the maiden and her sword. She looked very peaceful, and the knight himself looked tall and proud. The armor he wore had seen some wear and many pieces had been replaced, including the helm. Nothing could be seen of the knight’s face through the narrow slits of his visor.

“And his opponent, the Silent Rider!”

Alayne felt herself grow tense. He rode out to the field, the shield with the mouthless white face fastened to his arm. His armor was dented and mended in various places. The helm and visor were new but plain, two slits that cut from the temples and turned sharply down towards the chin. She recalled how ferocious he had looked wearing that ugly dog’s head helm in King's Landing. The black stallion cantered into position at the opposite end of the fence as his opponent. 

The flag bearer raised the checked fabric and let it fall, and the men charged. The lances descended from their vertical positions, pointed, aimed, and missed. Alayne found herself clutching at her gown by the sides of her thighs, her heart fluttering in her rib cage. On the second joust, both lances met their targets, crashing with such a force it nearly knocked both riders off their mounts. The Defender’s lance had splintered at the impact. His squire quickly replaced it while the riders reset themselves. _This is it,_ she felt, _this last joust will decide the champion._

Not moments before the flag touched ground, the mystery knights had bolted towards each other. Both seemed so sure, so intent on their targets. Alayne had slid to the edge of her seat, whole body tense. They drove forward, clashed, and a lance was splintered. A knight was falling headlong towards the dirt, arms outstretched to brace for impact. 

The Maiden’s Defender had hit the ground, and a frenzy erupted in the crowds. Alayne shot to her feet and applauded, watched as the Hound spurred his stallion on for the victory lap one last time and Alayne tried to catch his eye. She clapped, and then held her hands together, as in prayer. _It appears I will be missing the melee for the third and last time._ She hoped he took the meaning of her signal, and could not judge whether she noticed an imperceptible nod.

The Defender’s squire was helping him get to his feet. The knight regained his composure and stood as strong and tall as ever. He took off his helm.

Alayne’s heart fell to her feet. A silence descended upon the stands. _He is a… woman?_ The knight, or non-knight, stood almost as tall as the Hound with a mop of straw colored hair that was damp with sweat. Her face was broad and riddled with deep, purple scars going down along her cheeks and across her neck. _Her eyes though,_ Alayne thought in her shock. _Her eyes are pretty._ They were large and blue and shown with confidence. 

Suddenly the woman-knight approached the dais where Lord Robert and Petyr Baelish as well as all of the Lords Declarant and their bannermen were looking out with stunned expressions. Her squire appeared, handing her a majestic, golden hilted longsword of Valyrian steel. She took the sword, knelt before the dais.

“My lord, my name is Brienne, maid of Tarth. I pledge my fealty and sword to you, and swear to serve you loyally on your guard.” She bowed her head. 

“You’re a woman!” Sweetrobin called. He looked to Petyr. “Can I have a woman on my guard?”

“The little lord can do as he likes… She has proven her strength and agility in the joust.” Lady Waynwood spoke instead of Petyr, a look of intrigue written on her face.

“But she’s not a knight!”

“Nor am I, my lord.” The champion had dismounted his horse and now stood by Brienne. He lifted his helm from his head.

There were gasps and shouts throughout the audience. Calls of “The Mad Dog!” and “Murderer!” could be heard through out the stands. Alayne felt as though her heart would fly out of her chest, so hard was it beating. Petyr looked at her, realization dawning on his face. _He knows he will recognize me._ His scars were as distinct as they had ever been, a ragged ruin across the half of his face. A wet gleam of sweat showed on his heavy brow. His damp black hair fell along the sides of his face. He took a knee. 

“My lord, it was not I who pillaged Saltpans, but a pretender, a bandit who had stolen my dogshead helm. I have since sought refuge on the Quiet Isle, Elder Brother as my witness, and now kneel before you and pledge my sword and fealty to you. I swear to defend your life with my own so long as you will have me.”

Sweetrobin twisted about on his chair. “Where is the Elder Brother? Bring him here this instant!”

The tall healer appeared a few moments later escorted by one of Lord Royce’s bannerman. Petyr rose to question him.

“Good brother,” he began, “our champion here claims to not have had any hand in the murder and wreckage laid upon Saltpans and instead claims to have been housed under your employ during this time. Can you vouch for his innocence?”

Alayne listened intently to every word.

“Lord Protector, I am a holy man and my vows require that I not lie under any circumstance,” the Elder Brother said. “Therefore I can say with confidence that the Hound had long before died on the banks of the Trident, and that the brother Sandor Clegane has been our gravedigger for many a year, including during the burning of Saltpans.”

“I too can vouch for this man’s innocence.” It was the Maid of Tarth who spoke. Clegane and everyone looked at her, confused. “I killed the pretender with the dogshelm at the inn at the crossroads. His name was Rorge, and I suffered these scars from his henchman, Biter.”

Sweetrobin stood then and approached the edge of the dais towards where the two non-knights now knelt before him. Maester Colemen hurried to his side. The boy placed his small hands on his hips, flaring his beautiful blue and ivory cloak.

“I accept your fealties.” Then he turned and shouted, “I’m hungry!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The inner ward was crowded with maids and servants rushing to prepare for the feast. There were rumors spreading about the champion and his second already, that a beastly man-woman had overcome their knights and that the Mad Dog of Saltpans was in their presence. _It isn’t true, the Hound died, as the Elder Brother said._ He was a holy man. He could not lie.

Alayne drew the hood of her cloak over her brunette hair. Petyr had had yet another dress made for her, this one of a silk, navy blue fabric hemmed with strings of silver. The sleeves were off of her shoulders, accentuating her clavicle and chest. She pulled the cloak closer over her shoulders and made her way to the entrance of the sept. It was empty of followers except for a couple of modestly dressed brothers. The Septon Meribald was seated at the last step of the alter to the Stranger. He smiled at her arrival.

“Is it true, then, what they say about the Hound?”

“Aye, the Hound died at the Trident, just as I had died in the Battle of the Trident. I fought for Prince Rhaegar, though he never knew my name…I woke upon the Quiet Isle. The Elder Brother told me I had washed up on the tide, naked as my name day. I can only think that someone found me in the shallows, stripped me of my armor, boots, and breeches, and pushed me back out into the deeper water. The river did the rest. We are all born naked, so I suppose it was only fitting that I come into my second life the same way. I spent the next ten years in silence.”

“He has broken his vow of silence,” Alayne admitted, “as well as his vow of nonviolence. Does that mean he is no longer a holy brother?”

“That remains his decision and his alone, my dear. Only the seven-faced god may judge him now.”

Alayne bid the man good evening, and walked towards the eastern exit where the godswood lay just beyond. 

He sat facing her upon the stump of the weirwood tree, elbows on his knees. The setting sun and grey clouds cast a blue hue upon the thin layer of snow that blanketed the courtyard. He still wore the humble clothing of the brothers, a layered brown tunic and a pair of old breeches. _He will have to be fitted for his new armor on the morrow._ A scarf still covered his face, and in his bare hands he held her favor.

She spoke as she approached him. “You rode well today.”

He straightened his massive shoulders, looked up at her.

She took the favor from his hands, watched as the green silk slid through his fingers. “Thank you for heeding my request,” she said in a low voice, “why do you still wear this?”

He made no move to stop her when she reached for the scarf this time. Delicate hands moved to his chin, lifted the cowl slowly. Seeing the scars up close was different than from the stands. The burned flesh was mangled and cratered on one side of his jaw, stubbly and weathered on the other. She pulled it off all the way, his black hair pushed back with the scarf. He opened his grey eyes, studied her.

“Not so afraid to look anymore?”

“I am no longer the scared little girl I was in King's Landing,” she said. “How did you find me?”

He huffed a laugh. “I never sought you out. Just got lucky. I heard about the tourney and the rewards. Figured I’d had enough of that buggering Isle.”

“That was a risk. You could not have counted on the Elder Brother to vouch for you at the right moment.”

“But he did. He is a holy man. He cannot lie.”

Alayne considered the chances. “And now you are a member of Lord Robert’s Wingsguard, so to speak. And I his ward. History seems to be repeating itself.”

He eyed her, a hint of guilt crossing his features.

“He is no Joffrey, of course,” she added quickly. “Just my sickly cousin. He does not know who I am.” She considered telling him about everything, but judged it too soon to tell if she could really trust this man.

“Was it Littlefinger that took you, then?”

_Instead of you?_

“Not directly so, but yes,” she confessed, “he has disguised me as his bastard daughter. You must understand, the circumstances were dire. The Lannisters married me to the Imp and I was framed for Joff’s murder.” She shuddered at the memory.

“And now the little bird is more lowborn than I.” He barked a laugh.

Sansa laughed too, felt a blush creeping up her chest at the sound of the old nickname. 

“You must still refer to me as ‘my lady’ and obey my commands,” she said teasingly, “will the champion be so kind as to escort me to the feast?”

“As my lady commands.” 

When he stood, Sansa took in his great height and breadth. _He is much less intimidating while seated._ She hooked her hand in the elbow he offered and they walked in silence towards the Great Hall. The corridors had emptied due to the beginning of the feast, and once again she found herself late and being escorted by a man who would surely draw all eyes upon them. The distant tune of “Milady’s Supper” could be heard as the two approached, a bawdy song that was meant to rouse the guests. The guards at the large double doors let them enter as Alayne lowered her hood. 

Having abandoned his scarf in the courtyard, people all around them were gawking and staring rudely. He took her to her seat at a long table on the eastern wall of the hall, above the salt and beneath a burning sconce. Numerous eyes followed them there, and Alayne thought of a way to dispel the attention from him.

When he pulled the chair out for her, she let the heavy cloak fall from her shoulders. 

Almost instantly all eyes fell onto her. The alluring neckline of her gown drew attention to her bare shoulders and clavicle, the dark navy blue of the silk a compliment to the dark hair that fell in waves along her back. She tilted her head back as she sat to see grey eyes lift from her nape to meet her own.

“Thank you, my lord.”

A table had been set near the dais that was made special for the winners of wings. A large statue of ice stood in the center, chiseled in the shape of a pair of falcon wings. A similar statue sat on Sweetrobin’s table in the shape of the falcon and crescent of house Arryn so as not to make him jealous. He still wore the sky blue and ivory doublet he had donned for the joust earlier, as Alayne had predicted. Near the boy, Petyr sat in his high-backed chair wearing an embroidered grey doublet with black sleeves. He was eyeing her after Clegane had left her side, and showed one of those smiles that did not quite reach his eyes. She attempted a smile as if to say _it is alright, he’s harmless._

“He is a fearsome fellow,” Alayne heard Lady Waynwood say nearby.

“He is also a deserter,” Lymond Lynderly said, “turned craven at the flames of the Battle of Blackwater.”

“Would you not be wary of flames had you been burned as he had?” Alayne blurted. The man stared at her, stumped.

“Joffrey was no true son of King Robert’s,” Ben Coldwater added. “He had no place on the Iron Throne.”

“You believe the rumors?” Lady Waynwood asked.

Alayne tuned out their conversation, feeling ashamed by her outburst. _What has gotten into me?_

She looked about the hall for familiar faces, and her eyes kept going back to the winner’s table. There would be gifts for the winners. Each would be fitted with brand new armor and cloaks come the morrow, and a ceremony would take place where Sweetrobin will formally name each of them one by one onto his new guard. They would be housed in suites in the Tower of the Guard and given hefty wages for their work. Sandor Clegane was seated at one end of the table, drinking from a tankard. Harrold Hardyng was seated towards the center when he happened to catch her looking at him.

When the knight asked her to dance, she agreed. 

“Congratulations on winning wings, ser. You rode gallantly.”

“Your favor gave me courage,” he said.

“Ser Shadrich said getting hit by a lance was like hitting a stone wall at full force.” He winced when she squeezed his muscled shoulder.

“More like having a stone wall hit you. Joffrey’s dog was not an easy opponent.”

She made a face. 

“Have I said something wrong?”

“His name is Sandor Clegane.” 

“Sure it is. Listen, Alayne, about the other night-”

“Please, Harry, it was nothing. I’ve already forgotten.” She smiled sweetly at him, then was lead in a dance by the handsome Ser Byron, and after him Ser Albar Royce, whom she congratulated as well on his wings. Then another winner stole her away and made her laugh by mimicking the dance moves of Uther Shett. She would enjoy having Ser Roland Waynwood around. 

As different dance partners swept her about the hall, she kept chancing shy glances towards the winner’s table where the real champion sat. He made no attempt to hide the fact that he was staring at her. _No one will ask him to dance, of course,_ she thought. _He would likely decline anyhow._

When the dancing and feasting ended, and after a number of drunken cheers and toasts to the winners, the Great Hall began to empty itself out. Alayne hurriedly caught up to Myranda, her plump cheeks red with laughter and drink. She wore a purple gown that laced tightly against her large bosom that threatened to overflow from the low cut hem. She was with Mya, who still wore her riding breeches and boyish clothing.

“Alayne! Do join us. Mya was just telling me about all her wicked adventures today.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Myranda’s great featherbed was large enough to fit four. It was adorned with four ornate posts that made the canopy, holding thin curtains as they draped over the sides. _If this bed could speak, it would tell of all the secrets of the whole castle,_ Alayne thought. The three young women were now snug under her heavy blankets, recounting their individual days.

“So I cut the saddle’s rope just enough so that it would rip at the slightest tug, and then I wrapped it around the stirrup in a noose just so-”

“A moment,” Alayne cut Mya off, “you mean to say you were the reason Mychel Redfort was eliminated? You could have killed Harry!”

Myranda guffawed. 

“I would have done it to any knight unlucky enough to face him! Harry just happened to be the one.”

“How did you manage this?”

“With this cropped hair and my men’s clothing, no one thought twice to question me.”

“Now the poor man will be named a cheater for the rest of his days,” Randa sighed, “how satisfying.” All three laughed then. 

“Alayne, time to pay the pillow tax,” Randa poked her playfully in the sides.

“Alright! I’ll pay it dutifully,” she cleared her throat. _How shall I go about this?_ “Harry asked me to do something very unladylike.”

“He wants to bed you, he and the whole castle with him,” Mya groaned. 

“That is not all,” Alayne hesitated. “He said I could please him and keep my maidenhead.”

“You could,” Randa said. “But you don’t seem to want to.”

“I do,” she lied. “I just don’t know how,” she said miserably. 

“Alayne, do take care to make me feel less like a whore when you spill your secrets,” Randa laughed.

She blushed. “I-I didn’t mean to-” Then both girls began laughing. “I want to learn,” she blurted.

“Learn what exactly?” Randa was teasing her now. She loved to make her blush.

“How to please him. How to please men in general.”

The featherbed shook as Myranda got up to retrieve something from her vanity. When she jumped back up on the bed, she held her carved, wooden hairbrush up by the bristles.

“I am the teacher and you are the student. Mya, you too,” she said. Mya made a face. “Let us say this is a man’s erect manhood, you do know how it stands when aroused, do you? Well, there are a number of ways you can please this swollen appendage.”

“Please don’t call it that,” Mya complained. Alayne giggled. 

“You can either stroke it just so,” she said as she demonstrated. Her hand made a fist about the handle and moved up and down. “Make sure to squeeze just slightly at the base. Or, you could do the same motions with your mouth until they burst.”

She must have seen the look on her face, for she said, “it’s actually very pleasurable to them! Second only to your cunt.”

“You are such a slut,” Mya said. Randa smashed her about the head with a plump pillow that triggered the beginning of a pillow war. Feathers were strewn across the entire chamber in the aftermath, some still descending from the canopy like giant snowflakes long after. Alayne lay on her side at the edge of the bed, still smiling from earlier. She closed her eyes and thought about Harry and whether she would actually perform any of the unseemly things Myranda had described. _‘Your betrothal is contingent upon Harry’s choosing you and not the other way around.’_ She recalled Petyr’s words and worried. 

As she felt the waves of sleep overcome her, she thought not of her betrothed, but of another, taller and more formidable, a warrior and a champion. She remembered how it felt when his cruel lips crushed her own, wondered at that. She had often dreamed of him afterward, dreamed of him naked and in her marriage bed. _I’ll have a song from you._ When had something so frightening turned into something so stimulating? She did not attempt to understand her own thoughts and feelings, and chose instead to sleep deeply and sweetly. Tomorrow was another day that held its own promises.


	5. Chapter 5

The Lord Portector’s solar was empty when she arrived. The high-backed leather chair near the stained glass window bore a wood carving of a pair of wings carrying the crescent moon. The light of the morning sun shown through the glass, illuminated the scattered pamphlets on the heavy, broad desk. Dust motes floated through the air like little golden insects. Alayne walked to the other side of the desk, looked at the letters strewn there.

There were a few from the Night’s Watch after all. A plea for more men, and a detailing of something called dragonglass and its mythically fatal bite. Alayne thought briefly of her half-brother Jon. _He is Commander of the Night’s Watch now, doing as well for himself as he can in that icy wasteland._ She sifted past those letters and found the seal of the King. _King Tommen._ Alayne sat in the chair with the letter.

It was written by a Maester, but not by Grand Maester Pycell. This one was named Qyburn. It was a long-winded letter detailing circumstances that Alayne could barely understand. It seemed King’s Landing lay in the grip of chaotic disarray. The Faith Militant had been revived, and she vaguely recalled them from her past studies as a child. They were known historically to have caused trouble. One line in the letter struck her in particular. _They forced the Queen Regent to submit to a… penance walk?_ She had been imprisoned for a plot to murder King Robert Baratheon. The letter went on to say that the beautiful and gentle Margaery Tyrell had been imprisoned for lechery and treason, and that Lord Kevan Lannister was found with an arrow through his gut. Tyrion Lannister was believed to be the culprit. _My husband._ He was still missing, the large bounty on his head increased three-fold for anyone lucky to find him. Cersei had had a trial by combat in which an unknown knight named Ser Robert Strong defended her. Alayne could not recall any house by the name of Strong.

The young woman shot to her feet when Petyr entered the solar.

“Apologies for my lateness, sweetling.” He raised a narrow brow at her as she stood behind his desk. He was dressed in a doublet that fitted his nimble body, the color of coal. “Meddling with my letters, are you?”

“Forgive me, father. My curiosity overcame me. Perhaps you should not leave your letters so exposed. Anyone could simply walk in…”

The man moved towards a pitcher of Arbor Gold that stood on a nearby table. He poured two glasses of the alcohol, handed her one. 

“An innocent man would not leave incriminating information laying about as such. That is why I take care to do no such thing.” He drank. “Read anything of interest?”

“The entire court at King’s Landing appears to have lost their minds.”

“Not all. It would seem Cersei is the eye of that storm, taking down everything that comes near her in her own spiraling wreckage. She always likened herself a player in the game. But she never knew how to control her power. How to maneuver.” He sat in the vacant chair, the Lord Protector’s chair. 

“What is a penance walk?”

“It is what religious fanatics consider righteous self-punishment. It is a choice. A choice between a walk or death. They paraded the Queen Regent naked as her nameday through the streets of Flea Bottom, from the Sept of Baelor to the steps of the Red Keep.” He smiled.

Alayne felt sick to her stomach. Queen Cersei was never kind to her, but she did not think she deserved that kind of punishment. 

“Why have you summoned me here this morning?”

“To tell you about what will happen this evening. Please, sit.”

She moved to walk towards a vacant chair, but Petyr stopped her.

“Not there.” He cleared some pamphlets from the side of his desk, slid his hand across it. “Here.” 

Alayne did as he bid. Waited. He placed that same hand on her lap.

“Did you lose a wager?”

He smiled. “I am not some fool to place bets on fixed tourneys.”

“I always wondered how one could fix a tourney.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he lied. “No, it appears we have need to move forward with our plans now more than ever. Too many people know of your identity and many more are catching on. You need not dye your hair any longer.”

Her heart began to race. “What does this mean?”

“This means, sweetling, that tonight I will be announcing your betrothal to Ser Harrold Hardyng and you will be married within a fortnight. The lords have already gathered themselves here, why make them travel back only to return soon after? No. This wedding is happening now. But we’ll save your true unveiling for your wedding day. I want to see the looks on their faces when you arrive with the Stark direwolf on your maiden cloak.” 

He squeezed her thigh, and it almost made her wretch. 

“I thought my betrothal depended on Harry’s approval.”

“I have spoken to Lady Anya. Now that I have Roland Waynwood and Hardyng under my employ, she is reluctant to part with us so soon. The Lords Hunter and Royce will like to keep a closer eye on their heirs as well. The circumstances have changed. It is not up to the Hardyng boy any more.” He eyed her, must have noticed something in her face for he asked, “What is it?”

“You said too many people know. That they are catching on. I am not safe.”

“Sweetling,” he cooed as he dragged her onto his lap. “As long as I have you, you will always be safe. I’ve assigned to you a personal guard of your own. As it turns out, Joffrey’s old dog can be bought. As for that big wench, she was more than willing to be charged with your protection without any need for additional incentive.”

She tried to suppress the blush that threatened her. 

“He knows who I am. How do you know he will not turn me in?”

“Why should he? He has comfortable lodgings here and is being paid well. He is better off serving me than a Queen who has permanently fallen from grace. There is also that little fact that there is a price on his head as well.” He squeezed her about the waist. “Do you feel safe now, my sweet?”

“Yes,” she lied. He kissed her cheek, and then his bristly mustache was on her neck. He moved one hand to squeeze her breast.

“You look more and more like your lady mother each passing day. I can hardly wait to see that red hair again.” Her stomach turned. 

“We shouldn’t be seen like this,” she tried.

“Will you show me your red hair, daughter?”

Humiliation struck her with such a force she sat speechless. _Do not cry, don’t you dare cry._ This man was the only thing that stood between her good life here at the The Gates of the Moon and the end of her life in King’s Landing. 

“You do blush so prettily. Go on, tend to your duties. I will be in my solar should anyone need me.” 

Just like that, he released her, and she felt she could breath again. She managed a “Yes, father,” before leaving him to his work. 

The man was getting worse with his advances, so much at least was true. She knew about his unfailing love for her lady mother, what he had done to try to win her hand in his youth. When he was a ward in her grandfather’s household he had fallen in love with her, but her mother had only loved him as a brother. _That, and the fact that he was too low-born to even have a chance._ He had been foolish enough in love to spar with her uncle Brandon, who only spared his life because her mother begged him to. She wondered whether some essence of that foolishness remained in him still.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alayne smoothed out the wrinkles in her gown. She had chosen to wear the emerald dress that Petyr had first gifted her. The gold lace sewn on the bodice drew the eye to the bosom, and the buttoned sleeves lengthened her slender arms. _I should look my best when they announce my betrothal._ Her chestnut hair was drawn up in a golden hairnet. Everyone would be there, including all of the Lords Declarant as well as the newly anointed guard. 

“It looks just fine, now can we go? We are already late.”

Mya sat on the featherbed, waiting impatiently as Alayne examined herself in the floor length mirror.

“One last thing.” The young woman drew out a necklace from her jewelry box, a simple velvet ribbon in autumn gold.

“Beautiful, just gorgeous. Now, let’s go.” 

Mya had chosen to wear a boyish roughspun tunic and riding breeches. She had a slim and tall frame, and her hair was black as a raven’s wing, eyes big and blue. _She would be pretty if she just dressed like a girl,_ Alayne thought. There was no talking her into it, however hard some had tried. 

When she opened her chamber door, she was met with the scarred face of Brienne. 

Mya pushed past her. “What’d’ya want?”

“I am ordered to escort the Lady Alayne to the Great Hall,” she announced. 

“You get escorts now? Tuh, they add a bunch of guards to the court and no longer know what to do with them,” Mya said.

Alayne knew the real reason she was here. _She has been charged with my protection._

“Let us go, then.”

Brienne wore the newly made armor of Sweetrobin’s winged guard. It was made of a sterling silver with the crest of House Arryn melded into the breastplate. She wore a long cape of sky blue with a pair of cream-colored wings sewn on the back. It would have dragged along the stone as she walked if it were not for her immense height. Her straw blonde hair was combed neatly to the side, gnarled cheeks drawing attention away from her crystal blue eyes. Alayne considered it impolite to stare. 

“Your new suit is very lovely, my lady,” Alayne said.

“That is kind of you to say, my lady.”

“I don’t recall congratulating you on your winning wings.”

“You have been busy beating away the squires and knights vying for your favor, my lady.”

“Please, call me Alayne.”

“And you can call me Mya.” The girl popped her head out from behind Alayne’s shoulder.

Alayne eyed Mya up and down. “It seems you two have something in common.”

“What, like wanting to be comfortable?” Mya hooked a finger in her bodice and tugged, earning a slap on the hand from Alayne. “You’d have to tie me to a post before you get a corset on me. Don’t think a breastplate is much different. No, I’m a roughspun kind of girl myself.”

“Roughly spun indeed,” Alayne said as she tried to straighten out the mess of her hair. Brienne laughed. 

The Great Hall was a true testament to its namesake. The ceilings reached almost as high as the throne room in King’s Landing and it was wide enough to fit a dozen of Queen Cersei’s travelling coaches side by side. Candles had been lit all along the walls, reflecting off of large mirrors framed in gold. The marbled floor was cleared of dining tables and replaced by rows of benches for the spectators. The Royces were proud lords that were ever keen to make a show of their wealth.

Lord Nestor Royce was up on the dais himself, along with Sweetrobin and the Lord Protector, Petyr Baelish. Lady Waynwood could be seen sitting alongside Lord Hunter. The old woman was wearing a patterned gown of brown and gold, a broken wheel brooch fastened to her cloak. Brienne escorted them all the way up to the second row where Alayne found enough room for the two girls to squeeze in. 

The tall woman left them then to join the line of knights that stood beneath a picturesque tapestry. It depicted the mountainside of the Vale along with the Tears of Lys. The waterfall had already frozen over, Alayne recalled. The cloaks on the knights matched the color of the sky in the tapestry. Sandor Clegane stood tall and broad near the end of the line, a gauntleted hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His scarred face was bare for all to see, his black, thin hair combed to the side.

Harrold Hardyng was there as well. _My husband to be._ He was a full head shorter than Clegane, his armor suited to his lithe body. His sandy blonde hair was combed away from his handsome, unmarred face. Some likened him to a young Jaime Lannister. Alayne supposed she saw the resemblance. 

The young woman watched as Sweetrobin sang his lordly songs to each of the knights. He recited his lines just as a little highborn lord should, making sure to say each new guard’s name as loudly as he could muster with his frail voice. 

“Rise, Ser Lyn Corbray, and accept your wings.”

A servant approached with a shining silver brooch in the shape of a pair wings. It was fastened onto the man’s collar where his cloak was clasped. Then he was given a newly shined helm. It was engraved with a large falcon wing on each side over the ears. Corbray took it and moved on to the other side of the hall. 

It was Harry’s turn, and suddenly Alayne worried for Sweetrobin’s temper. Even so, the little lord stood proud and straight-backed in his lovely ivory doublet. 

“Ser Harrold Hardyng, you may approach.”

Her betrothed took a knee before the dais. 

“For your valor and skill in the joust, I bestow upon you the honor of a place on my Winged Guard. Do you swear to protect my life with your own and serve me loyally and true as your new duties demand?”

“My Lord, this I swear.”

“Then rise, Ser Harrold Hardyng, and accept your wings.”

 _No shaking, not even a twitch._ Alayne was surprised. _This must be the work of the Elder Brother._ She decided she would have to speak with Petyr about keeping that man around for a while longer. 

As the procession carried on and the other knights received their gifts, Alayne found her gaze pulled towards the line of the few knights still waiting. He was looking at her. 

His name was called then, and Sandor Clegane approached and took a knee before Sweetrobin. 

There were whispers all around her, clawing at the back of her neck. Talk of “the Lannister dog cannot be trusted” and “he’s a crazed murderer, that one, he’ll bring destruction to us all.” Alayne chose to ignore them, focusing instead on the long, sky blue cloak draped across the man’s back as he knelt. The white of the wings sewn there recalled a different white cloak he wore, long ago. _He had torn the burnt and bloody thing off his shoulders and left it at my feet._

The last knight was called to receive his wings, Ser Lothor Brune, and then the entire hall was invited for appetizers and music in the dining hall while the servants and maids set the tables for the feast. A nervous tingle swept through her. _Only a matter of time now that my betrothal is announced._ She tried to remain composed.

“Well, that was long and boring,” Harry said when he found her. 

“As formalities ever are. You look very handsome in your new suit.” She placed a hand on his plackart. 

“And you,” he said, mostly to her chest, “are stunning.” 

She smiled at him, looked into his bright blue eyes. “Thank you, ser. Will you be keeping this on for the feast?” She knocked on the heavy plate.

“It appears I must. All of my fellow guardsmen don’t seem to be relieving themselves of this cage.”

“And of course you don’t want to be the weakest of them all.”

“Precisely,” he grinned, displaying his straight, white teeth. “My aunt Anya says we will be married in a fortnight.”

“I’ve heard and now I can hardly wait.” She grinned brightly. “I believe they’ll be making the announcement before supper.” 

“What announcement?” Myranda was carrying a goblet of Dornish Red. Harry turned a shade somewhat similar to the drink.

“We’re to be married,” Alayne confessed, studying Harry curiously.

“Oh, how wonderful! So soon?”

“Harry here is very eager,” Alayne said.

Myranda laughed and drank deeply from her glass. The two of them were acting strangely. _Oh, no…_ Just then, the doors to the Great Hall were reopened, and the ladies and lords made their way to be seated for the feast. The musicians had taken up a buoyant song called “Alys of the Valley” to commence the dancing. Alayne found her seat on her own, Harry having long abandoned her to share a jape with Ser Roland Waynwood. 

Long after she had exhausted herself dancing, Alayne picked aimlessly at the peas and steamed beans on her dish. That night the cooks had served mutton and baked chicken, with steamed potatoes and vegetables. _I just knew there was something going on with her, the way she kept acting so jealous._ She looked at the buxom girl as she laughed and scarfed down a wing of chicken. Myranda was not one to deny herself the pleasures of neither food nor skin. She could not say she was surprised or even disappointed. _She wants him more than I do, let her have her fun while she can._

Harry, on the other hand… _Will I spend the rest of my days with a lecher?_ The thought of having to hear about some other bastard he begot made her feel sick. _I don’t care,_ she tried to tell herself, _he will only be your husband. You don’t have to love him, only tolerate him._

A tankard appeared in her line of sight, and she set out her goblet to be filled. Ser Shadrich the Mad Mouse poured Dornish Red into it with generosity. The short man wore a tunic of bendy brown and blue, and a little white mouse with red eyes was sewn onto the breast. Alayne had never seen anything so ugly.

“Is the lady upset? Some sour red is like to fix that up right quick.”

“Thank you, ser.” She sipped. He took a vacant seat to her right.

“What troubles you, my dear?”

“Nothing, ser. It is just the nerves of a soon-to-be bride.”

“You’re getting married? How delightful.” He did not sound delighted. “To whom, if I may ask?”

“You will soon find out.” She tilted her chin towards the dais, where Petyr now stood signaling to the musicians to cease their song.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he rang, “I interrupt your dancing and feasting with a small announcement. But first, a toast to our newly formed Winged Guard and to the Lord Robert Arryn. May his reign be long and in good health.” There were cheers of “hear, hear!” and applause all around. 

“And another toast, to our esteemed guests who have traveled far and wide to witness this remarkable tourney here at the Gates of the Moon. We thank you for your patronage and welcome you stay for another fortnight to partake in our meat and mead. To you all!” More cheers rang through the feast-goers. The lords and ladies on the dais clapped daintily.

“Now, for the real announcement. It is my utmost pleasure to announce the betrothal of my sweet, natural daughter, whom I hold very dear to my heart, to a newly anointed Winged Guard, the valiant Ser Harrold Hardyng. Will the pair please stand.” It was more of a command than a question. 

She stood and smiled as all attention drew onto her. Harry stood as well at the other side of the hall. Alayne chanced a glance at Clegane, who sat leaning back in his chair, eyeing her with something akin to suspicion. 

“In a fortnight these lovebirds will say their vows and join each other in marital bliss. A toast to their union, may they be happy and bear me many grandchildren.” Petyr raised his glass, and smiled one of those smiles that did not quite reach his eyes. 

She raised her glass as well, and made sure to smile brightly as she gave her courteous thanks to everyone who congratulated her thereafter. She finished her second glass of the Dornish Red and later shared the final dance with Harry. She tried not to think about it too much when he squeezed her hand in his, held her waist close to his hips. _A lady’s courtesy is her armor._ They waltzed to “Autumn’s Harvest” until the song had ended, and then she bid her betrothed a good night, placed a shallow kiss on his lips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The night air was cool and crisp. Stars shown brightly in the sky like otherworldly candles. Sansa craned her neck as she leaned on the balustrade, trying to find the constellations. She had told the others she was going to her chambers for some rest, but she found herself on the terrace outside the Great Hall instead. The red comet from her childhood still made its route across the sky, outshining even the moon. Some thought it heralded some terrible event to come. Sansa found it was quite mystifying. 

Someone leaned on the balustrade near her.

“Never thought something burning could be so pretty,” he grated.

He was speaking of the comet. 

“Doesn’t it frighten you? It could strike us and rain its red fire all around.” 

“I knew you’d grown. Didn’t think you’d grow morbid." 

“How did you know I was here?”

“Followed you. I’m to protect you now, according to Littlefinger. Or hasn’t he told you?”

“He did… you and Brienne.” She recalled how the tall woman had not been asked to dance at the feast and remained seated and alone. Sansa pitied her. 

“Aye, a woman bigger and stronger than most men I’ve met.” He barked a laugh. “She knows I followed you, else she’d be breathing down your neck now.”

In the night, there was nothing to illuminate his features but the moon. The burned side of his face appeared cratered with shadows. 

“Petyr said you could be bought.”

He eyed her, considering. “He assumed as much. I would’ve done it either way, but he happened to offer.” He leaned on one arm against the balustrade. “He’s untrustworthy. I remember him in King’s Landing. I was there when we cut down your father’s men. Ned Stark meant to rally the soldiers against Cersei. Littlefinger informed her of his plot before he even had the chance.”

Sansa felt like she had been struck in the face. It was Petyr who had turned on him, then, at the last moment. She always knew the man could not be trusted, _but this?_ Then her father was imprisoned and murdered, and everything that came thereafter. All those promises, all those words of comfort for her and praise for her father’s honor. _They were all lies._ Somehow she had fooled herself into believing he was on her side all along. In the end, Petyr Baelish only did what was best for Petyr Baelish. _And his coin. How could I have been so foolish?_ Tears threatened to overflow. _No, I must be strong._

“There’s something else you should know,” he continued.

“Is it more about him? If it is then I have no care to hear it.” Her voice quivered, much to her frustration.

He looked out towards the settlements. Some cook fires still burned a waning orange glow.

“It’s about the little wolf. Your sister.”

_Oh Gods, I cannot. I cannot bear to hear it._ She hugged her cloak about her shoulders. “Please, go on.”

“I ran into some group of bandits after the Blackwater, the Brotherhood without Banners they called themselves. They had your sister in tow. I kidnapped her and tried to ransom her at Riverrun. We were too late by then…” He looked at her, and she nodded, beckoning him to continue. “Missed the Red Wedding by a few heartbeats. I thought to take her to some aunt I knew she had here, but we got into a spat with this one Tickler at the crossroads. I was drunk and got myself injured something fierce, my leg has never been right since. Your sister left me to die on the Trident.”

“What happened to her?”

“She turned her horse and never looked back. Knowing her, she’s like to be alive and biting somewhere even now, tough little wolf that she was.”

Sansa let the tears fall for true now. _This could be good news. She could still be alive somewhere._ She recalled her little sister, how she loved her dancing lessons that had not been dancing lessons at all. _She can fight, like Brienne._ She wiped at her wet cheeks.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said.

The large man grunted. “Ever the courteous little lady. Could never believe you two were sisters.”

That bought a smile to her face. She placed a delicate hand on his cold vambrace. He dropped it to his side and faced her. Sansa leaned into him. She was taller now that she was older, as long-limbed as they come. She did not have to reach far.

“What in seven hells are you doing?”

The girl opened her eyes, face inches away from his. He had a look of angered shock written across his face. The grips of hard gauntlets held her high on her arms.

“I-I-ah don’t-” she stammered stupidly.

“It’s a dangerous game you play, girl,” he released her with a slight shove.

Embarrassed and confused, Sansa fought for some answer, some explanation. _Has there been some misunderstanding? Have I read him wrongly?_ No, she remembered that night very well.

“You kissed me,” she said, almost to herself. 

Sandor Clegane’s eyes grew wide then, and she was back in his tight grip in an instant.

“Are you drunk or just stupid? I did no such thing,” he growled. 

Sansa pushed against his breastplate, forcing her way out of his strong hold. 

“The night of the Blackwater. I sang for you. And you kissed me, and then you left me all alone with nothing but a stupid bloody cloak!” _Am I wrong? How could I be wrong?_ She remembered it so well, the way his cruel lips crushed her own.

“Don’t chirp so loudly or the whole bloody castle will hear. It’s time you got some sleep. You’re drunk,” he said in a hoarse whisper. He held out his hand.

She slapped it away. “That’s rich coming from you. I remember how your breath stank of Dornish Red that night. You were always a drunk, of course I could not leave with you.” 

She regretted her words as soon as they left her mouth. 

“I-I did not mean-”

“I know bloody well what you meant.”

Her shoulders slouched, and her hands came up to meet her aching temples. _I am still a stupid little girl with a head full of songs._ She could not understand how it had come to this, how she had gotten herself into this situation. She was promised to be married to a handsome young knight in a fortnight. _What if someone saw me? Oh, Gods. Petyr would kill me himself._

“I apologize-“ she began, but her words were torn away from her when his cruel mouth met hers. His gauntleted hands gripped her arms tightly, and she could not comprehend it when she moved her lips against his. He was breathing hard, and she found that she was as well. She could hear her own pulse in her ears, feel it in his grip. Her hands touched the cold steel of his breastplate. His lips slanted against hers, and she opened for him, let him explore her deeply as she did the same. Eventually, they came to a slow stop, like descending from a great height.

“I would have remembered that,” he said hoarsely. 

Sansa felt herself trembling, then quickly realized it was not her but his hands on her that were trembling. He removed them quickly. She did not know what to say, did not know how to feel. 

“It’s high time you got back to your cage, now.”

She stood there dumbly for a moment before taking the elbow he had offered. They walked in silence all the way to the Maiden’s Tower, the halls echoing with their steps as the castle slept on. _What have we done?_ Only a few torches remained lit in their sconces, the staircase long emptied of inhabitants. _What have we started?_

They finally reached her chamber door. She murmured a “thank you” and he gave her his “good night,” and she closed the door behind her. Leaned on the frame, listened to his footsteps. She could not even look at him when she said it. She would not admit it, but she was afraid. Afraid like she had never been before. _If someone had seen…_

The room was dark and warm, and she moved the curtain from her window and cracked the pane a finger’s width. She struck a match and lit a candle, looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was askew and the hairnet had all but fallen out completely. Taking the pins out one by one, she let the tresses fall to her shoulders. Something caught the corner of her eye. She looked in her mirror, moved closer, tousled her hair.

_Auburn._


	6. Chapter 6

Dawn cast its blue hue through the crack in the windowpane. The shadows of her dresser and mirror shortened, and slowly the chamber changed from darkest indigo to sky blue. One warm hand rested low on her tummy to ease the aches that ebbed and flowed. In some ways, she was glad to have her moonblood arrive now rather than later. _One less obstacle for my wedding night._

She turned over in her quilted blanket, stuffed a plump pillow between her knees to help the pain. The thought of her wedding night brought her no comfort. She was still upset by what she had deduced from Myranda’s and Harry’s behaviors during the feast. If her suspicions were true, and they had truly slept together during his short time here, she could not imagine what his behavior would be once they were married. _Perhaps he will change his ways,_ she thought, but she knew that was unlikely.

_Charm him. Entrance him. Bewitch him._ Those had been Petyr’s words, but she was finding it difficult to do so when his behavior angered her as it did. _Had I known how to please him I would have done so, if it meant he would not stray._ But even thinking such things was destructive to her dignity. She would be doing it out of necessity and not love, nor even desire. _Petyr sent me out like one of his whores to do his bidding, and I obliged happily._ Suddenly those few kisses she had shared with Harry made her sick.

_There was another kiss,_ she thought then. _A kiss of my own choosing._ Something inside her swelled, and her chest felt warm and full. When she closed her eyes she could still see him before her, his eyes dark with fear and hunger. What they had done was a risk neither of them were prepared to take. _And yet we took it willingly._

Later, when Maddy arrived to help her dress and make the bedding, Sansa considered the hypocrisy of her actions. What Harry did had upset her, but here she was doing the same behind his back. For a moment she thought she might have done it to spite him, but she quickly dispelled such a notion. _I was not even thinking of him._ Such a thought frightened her even more. _I did it because I wanted it. I wanted him._

“Fetch me my brush, please.”

Maddy presented the wooden handle to her. Alayne brushed her long chestnut hair in the mirror and her maid fastened it with a silver clip. It was formed in the shape of two mockingbirds in flight and on her simple gown was a pattern of little white mockingbirds. _Soon I will have all these mockingbirds melted down and burned._ Littlefinger’s betrayal of her father was still fresh on her mind. _He could have stood by and done nothing,_ but he had done worse. The Lord Protector was now behind the deaths of not one but two of her own family, and now that the rest were either dead or missing, her place was to protect that which she had left. _Sweetrobin._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The young lord was still wrapped in his blankets well into midday. Ser Roland Waynwood stood at attention near the cyvasse table donning his wings. He appeared to be bored. There was a tray of eggs and toast and a tankard of juice that rested untouched near the foot of the bed. The boy lay on his side clutching a pillow, sniffling. 

“Any shaking fits?” Alayne asked Maester Colemen when she entered the chamber.

The links around the old man’s neck rattled as he walked. “None so far, my lady. The Elder Brother visited earlier to tend to the boy, but he has been under some duress since last night. Might be a cup sweetmilk will help with the nerves.” 

“Is your answer for everything sweetmilk, now? He has been doing well, I just need to speak to him.” A dose of sweetmilk was safe if taken once a year. Any more and the drink could prove lethal.

“The Lord Protector has advised that I use just a pinch of sweetmilk when he becomes troublesome. It has helped tremendously in the past, and he has shown little side effects.”

“Well, I advise that you seek other methods of soothing him. He won’t be needing sweetmilk any longer.” She strode over to the bed to where Sweetrobin lay, placed a palm on his forehead. _Normal, as expected._

“Darling, would you like to play a game of cyvasse with me before you begin your studies?”

Roland spoke up. “Already tried that one on him.”

“I don’t want to do anything, I just want to stay here.” He began sniffling again.

“What is bothering you, Sweetrobin? Tell your Alayne, and I will have your knights fix it right away.”

He looked up at her with round, tearful eyes. “They can’t fix a broken heart.”

_Not this again._ Alayne inwardly groaned. “Robert, you knew I would someday marry another.”

“But why _him?_ You know he just can’t wait until I die so he can take my castle.”

“That isn’t true and you must stop speaking of your cousin that way. Besides, it wasn’t my decision that I marry him; it was my father’s. Personally I think he is ugly and he stinks.”

Sweetrobin laughed a little at that. “Does he smell like sour eggs?”

“Worse, he smells like a chamber pot after Ser Uther Shett got through with it.”

The boy howled with laughter and twisted in his blankets. Alayne waited till he settled down. “Will you come play now?”

“Only if you read me a story afterward. A story of the winged knight.”

“Of course I will.” _He always wants to hear the same story._ With that, the two sat themselves on the table. Ser Roland oversaw their game, often siding with Sweetrobin and suggesting to him what plays to make. From the corner of her eye she saw Maester Colemen watching them from where he sat on a large desk. He shifted his gaze to his paperwork. _He fears Littlefinger more than he cares about Sweetrobin. That is why he continued to administer the sweetmilk._ She hoped to put a stop to it once and for all.

After the game had ended and Robert had won with the help of Roland, Alayne set out to find the Elder Brother. Overnight it had snowed, and the grounds were covered in slush and mud. She stepped carefully up the stairs that led into the Sept, avoiding the especially slippery steps. There were more people praying than usual, with the usual crowd settling around the alters of the Mother and Father. The Maiden’s alter was relatively roomy. She kneeled, lowered her head, raised her hands and closed her eyes.

The young woman recited her usual openings. _I pray for Sweetrobin’s health and safety. I pray I shall return one day to see Winterfell reborn, however long that may take. I pray mother, father, Robb, Bran, and Rickon rest peacefully in the heavens. I pray Arya and Jon are safe._ Sansa looked up at the figure as it loomed overhead. Her eyes were stony yet soft. _Pray give me the patience and intuition needed to protect myself against those who seek to hurt me. Or use me. And pray give me the strength to do what I must when the time comes. Blessed Maiden._

She picked up her skirts when she rose then, placed a candle beneath the altar. The Elder Brother was not in the main hall of the Sept. Alayne entered the library. Tall shelves lined the walls all throughout the stuffy room. Each box contained large volumes and tomes, and some scrolls were scattered about on tables and benches. The layers of dust grew thicker as the shelves rose higher. Long reading benches were situated in rows from the front of the room to the back. A few hooded brothers sat silently amongst the rows. She spotted the Elder Brother easily, his tall build bent over an ancient tome. 

“I had hoped to find you here, brother.” 

He looked up from where he was reading. “Ah, Lady Alayne. How good to see you.”

“You must forgive me for interrupting-”

“Not at all. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It is about the little Lord Robert. Your healing abilities have improved his health to such a degree in just a few days that our Maester could not manage for the past eleven years.” She considered how to go about this. “I was hoping you would be willing to stay here in our employ for as long as Sweetrobin should need your services.”

The lines in his forehead creased. “My lady, forgive me but I cannot make such promises to you. However much I would like to help the little lord, I am a brother of the faith, and my place is in the Quiet Isle where I take my penance. That, and healing is exhaustive work.” He flexed his hands, looking down at them. They were red and shown little fissures around the knuckles. 

“You will be paid handsomely as befits your service.” Of this she had no doubt.

“Has the Lord Protector approved of this?”

“I have yet to speak to him, but I am sure that Lord Robert’s gaining health will be enough to sway him,” she lied. _Littlefinger wants him dead, but he is not like to openly admit as much._ However much Sansa wanted to be have the Eyrie’s forces to reclaim Winterfell, she did not want to have Sweetrobin die to achieve it. “I wanted to know first whether it would be possible that you stay, if only for a little while longer.”

“I will consider it.”

Alayne thanked him then, and bid him good day. Once on the main lobby of the Sept, she eyed the northern exit that led to the Godswood. Her feet moved in that direction almost on their own accord. The corridor was empty and full of shadows. _He won’t be there. He has guardianship duties now. No time for games such as these._ But something deep within her had to look despite her better judgment.

As she approached, she saw the otherwise untouched layer of snow that lay on the ground had been disrupted by a set of footsteps. Her heartbeat quickened with her step.

A man sat upon the weirwood stump, but he was about two feet shorter than she expected. He stopped chewing on his walnuts to grin widely at her appearance. 

“Good day, Ser Shadrich.” She made to continue on down the corridor, but he called out to her.

“Leaving so soon, my lady? Won’t you stop to say a prayer?”

Her blood ran cold. “I do not pray to the old gods, ser.”

“Then what would a southern lass like you be doing in a godswood with nothing but the rotting stump of an old weirwood?”

She eyed him from where she stood in the corridor, contemplated running. _That will just seem like I have something to hide._ “I come for the quiet and serenity, but I see you have disrupted that now.”

He stood then, approached her slowly. He wore a brown roughspun cloak about his shoulders, and his wiry and weathered face was stern. He was a few feet away from her when he spoke again.

“Is that why you came here twice in two days?” He took a step.

“You’ve been watching me?” Her throat felt tight.

“Not at all,” he said as he stepped closer. “I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“I must be going now,” she tried, but he continued.

“Tell me, how have you got to know the Hound so well in a matter of days, eh? Or did you know him from before. Some…past acquaintance, mayhap?” 

She stepped back and bumped against a stone surface. Her hands were clammy and her heart felt constricted. One final step closed the gap between them and suddenly she was struggling out of his grasp. 

“Unhand me this instant!”

“The missing Sansa Stark,” he bared his teeth. “A mouse does have a good sense of smell.” He twisted her wrists painfully and Sansa screamed. He struck her hard in the head and for a moment her whole world tilted. There was a ringing in her left ear. He dragged her to the soft snow, forced her face into the cold white substance as he bound her hands. She tried to scream again, but a rough piece of cloth now gagged her mouth. 

He leaned over her, whispered harshly in her ear. “Do not try to scream or I’ll cut open your throat. Lord Varys is not like to pay me for your bleeding corpse.” Sansa began to cry. _I grew too comfortable, too careless. It is my own fault._

He was laughing now as he wrapped her about his cloak, began dragging her away. “No snide japes to make at my expense anymore? I heard you laughing with that bitch Myranda during the tourney. I’ve seen the look of disgust on your face when you see me. Think I’m small and weak, do you?” He dropped her painfully and Sansa groaned at the impact. He kicked her hard in the stomach, and for a moment everything went white. She could not draw air. Her face was soaked in tears and snow. _All this way, for nothing._

“Who is weak and small now, eh? Is it you, Stark bitch?”

He drew back to kick her again just as she managed a ragged breath. Her vision blurred. She closed her eyes to prepare for the impact.

It never came. There were some choking sounds, and something spilled onto the snow. It splattered on her face. She twitched, opened her eyes and was met with the pale, dead face of Ser Shadrich the Mad Mouse.

The shadow of a tall figure loomed above and pushed her to her back. 

“Lady Sansa, are you alright?” _Brienne._ The large woman went to work cutting away the gag and wires around her wrist. Her jaw ached. When she tried to move, her vision tilted dizzyingly to the side and her tummy ached painfully where she had been kicked. She clutched at the place where she had been struck, nausea taking hold in her tummy. She had to close her eyes to stop the world from shifting. The pain was throbbing.

“I will get you to a Maester at once.”

Suddenly she felt she was flying, but later she realized Brienne had carried her all the way to the Maester’s ward in the common tower. The way there had all but passed by in an instant. Alayne had kept her eyes closed the entire time, too afraid to feel the world tilting again. The nausea remained. “Inform the Lord Protector his daughter has been attacked. The offender is in the Godswood. Go!” She heard Brienne’s labored breathing as she quickly climbed countless steps and turned numerous corners.

They had already settled her onto a cot when she opened her eyes next. Both Maester Colemen and Brienne hovered over her, as well as a pudgy servant who wiped at her face. The wet rag came away red with blood. _My blood?_ she thought for a frightening instant.

Brienne seemed to have read her mind. “It is Shadrich’s. He dropped close to you when I gutted the fool.” She turned then to the Maester. “What’s wrong with her? Why does she not speak?”

“She is in shock, might be. The bruising and swelling here,” he touched gently near her left ear towards the back of her head, “the man hit her quiet hard. Alayne, how many fingers do I hold up, dear?”

Sansa struggled to get her vision to focus, _if only everything would stand still_. “Two? No, one!”

Colemen looked down at her with concern. The maid brought over some tea then. “Sit up, dear. Have some tea with leaves of Ol’Molly. It will help with the headache.”

The doors to the ward opened with a loud bang. The Lord Protector of the Eyrie and Vale of Arryn strode into the long hall wearing a light grey doublet patterned in stripes of black. One of the winged guard followed close after. _Harry? Has he come to see me?_ She squinted her eyes and recognized her betrothed’s blonde hair, a look of concern on his face.

Petyr Baelish settled himself comfortably at her side, took her hand in his. His face was so contorted with worry she could have almost believed he truly cared for her.

“I came as soon as I heard, daughter. Are you hurt?”

Maester Colemen spoke before she had the chance to try. “She has suffered a hard strike to her head, my lord, near the back where it is most likely to effect her balance. She will likely experience some vertigo for a day or so but it should not be perilous.” Sansa closed her eyes briefly in relief.

“Her attacker meant to knock her unconscious. I killed that runt before he could do worse. Check her belly. I believe he kicked her as well.” 

Petyr looked to the tall, blonde woman with compassion. “My deepest thanks to you, my lady, for saving my daughter’s life and ridding this castle of vermin such as him.” He turned to Sansa. “You will be fine, sweetling,” he rubbed the back of her hand, “the guard will see to it that not a moment goes by that you are not safe and secure.” 

_He means to put me under surveillance,_ she realized. She managed a soft smile, and then found her words. “Thank you, father.”

“Ah, she speaks!” Petyr raised his hands as if in awe, and the people gathered around her chuckled. Harry moved closer to her from where he was standing at the end of the cot.

“Why did he attack you?” the young knight asked.

Alayne frowned, and Littlefinger looked at her knowingly.

The opportunity was too rich to pass up. “Why ever else?” she said with some annoyance. “He wanted to take me and have his vile way with me before I married. Some men are so overcome with lust they cannot control themselves and behave as beasts.” She fought to contain her temper.

“Such is the way of rats. We could have expected no less from the lowly knight,” Petyr said.

Sansa recalled Shadrich’s stoney, lifeless face and shuddered. His eyes had been bulging wide with pain in his death. It was unlikely she would forget such a gruesome image.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later, when her doting party had thinned and the candles were being lit in the hall, Brienne offered to escort her to her chamber to prepare for supper. The two of them walked slowly as Sansa held her by her vambrance. Those who passed them by offered kind words and sympathetic looks. _Word spreads like wildfire here,_ she thought, slightly embarrassed by the attentions. The corridors were heavy with foot traffic as the cooks and servants made the necessary preparations. Some looked askance at Brienne, whispering and giggling to their neighbors at her appearance. The straw-haired woman paid them no heed.

When the two women reached her chamber door, they both spoke at once.

“After you, my lady.”

“Please come in for a moment. I must have a word.”

The floorboards creaked under the guard’s heavy footfall. Sansa immediately sought out a cushioned chair, weary from her aching head. She sighed as she sat, watched Brienne settle herself onto an ottoman nearby, the blue cloak of the winged guard pooled on the rug. Large, crystal blue eyes looked at her expectantly.

“First I must thank you for saving me.” She had a flash memory of being kicked in the gut, and she closed her eyes to keep from vomiting.

“It is my duty, my lady. I met Shadrich on my way to Duskendale and he revealed to me that he sought a maid of three and ten with auburn hair. He worked for this Lord Varys. The spider, some call him.”

Sansa vaguely recalled the stout, bald man from her time in King’s Landing. She tried not to think about what the eunuch had planned for her. “It is apparent you know my identity. All I ask of you now is how. Who told you?”

The large women let out a tired breath, looked down at her thick hands. “It is not so much who told me, but what I had reasoned by the details at hand. The godswood, the betrothal, the sudden appearance of Littlefinger’s long lost bastard daughter. Littlefinger never had a bastard,” she huffed.

“How do you know him?” Sansa asked, her suspicions ever growing.

“I do not.” She looked at her then, hesitated. “But your mother does.”

Something long dormant pulled at her heart. “My mother is dead. You knew her?”

The warrior’s brow wrinkled and her mouth frowned, rendering the deep purple scars on her cheeks more gruesome than usual.

“Lady Sansa, I swore an oath to your mother before she was murdered at the Twins. She was there when King Renly was killed by a shadow and she defended me when the others sought to frame me for his murder. She knew. She knew I had loved him. I swore by my life that I would see her daughters returned safely home where they belong. Now here I am with you, and I make the same promise I made your mother. I swear to give my life in service to you, to protect you and follow your commands. And I will only take you home if you are willing.”

The young woman’s mind reeled. “Of course I want to go home.” Brienne rolled her shoulders, determined. “But it is impossible. As least for the time being. The Boltons have Winterfell and I need an army if I am to stand any chance.” She looked at her window on the far side of the room. The metal crossings in the pane were lined with frost. “My home will have to wait.”

“I stand by any decision you make.”

Sansa stared at the window a moment longer, until the sound of steel scraping its scabbard drew her back. “I would feel better knowing you had this,” Brienne said as she held out the narrow dagger by the hilt. It was patterned with deep silver inlays, the likeness of a falcon and moon engraved into the base. She took it with some trepidation.

“Thank you, but I do not know how to wield it.”

“Hold it in your fist pointing upward, like so. Daggers are made for close combat – you will want to stab up under the rib cage either from the front or the back.”

Sansa made a face. “I shall not like to use it.”

“I will be happy to demonstrate the proper technique, my lady.”

“Now is not appropriate, but thank you.” She rubbed at the base of her skull. “You are free to go now, Brienne. Make ready for supper. I will be down in a bit.”

As the tall woman made to leave, she turned and said, “Fear not, my lady. Your secret will stay safe with me however long you wish to keep it.” With that, she turned and left.

The room tilted slightly when she stood, but not as terribly as it had earlier. In her floor length mirror she saw that the bodice of her woolen dress had been spotted with blood. Disgusted, she removed it and threw it in a basket for Maddy to collect later. The maid arrived soon after, carrying fresh towels and sheets. 

“I heard the news. Is m’lady well?”

“Yes, I will live.” Alayne pulled out a simple light pink gown from her wardrobe and laid it out on her featherbed. “Fetch me a bath, if you will.” She was sticky with sweat and filth.

The water steamed out of the tin tub. She let her chemise and undergarments fall to the floor. The girl sunk into the hot water, immersed her head in it fully. Maddy kneeled by the tub with a washrag, and Alayne moved her hair to the side to let the maid scrub at her neck and back. Alayne took another rag and soaped up her own arms and chest. The foam slid off her fair skin with the water. A sudden urge to cry came upon her, but she held it at bay. _I never should have so much as glanced in the direction of the Godswood. How could I have been so stupid?_ She recalled all those times Shadrich had run into her, seemingly on accident. The day the Waynwoods arrived, in the settlements, on the viewing stands. _Last night he poured my wine._ The thought was sickening.

She was glad he was dead.

Later, when her hair was set and her gown adjusted to her frame, a knock came upon her door. It was the dull Ser Albar Royce, the eldest son and heir of Lord Nestor Royce.

“Good evening, Lady Alayne. How do you fare?”

“Well, ser, thank you.” She took his elbow and they made their way to the Great Hall for supper. The knight was broad shouldered and clean-shaven, with fierce black side-whiskers that made him look very much like his father. Alayne made small talk with the knight as they passed through the corridors. Music could be heard not far from the large double doors of the hall.

As they arrived, they encountered Petyr and the fat Lord Graffton as they made to enter the hall. Clegane and Corbray followed close behind them, both wearing the armor of the winged guard. Alayne fought to stay her fluttering heart.

“My dear daughter, I am glad to see you are well enough to join us for supper.”

“My lady,” Graffton said, “what happened to you was deeply deplorable. If there is anything anyone can do, do not hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She glanced at the scarred face of Clegane, but his attentions were elsewhere. _Why won’t he look at me?_

“Come, sweetling.” Petyr held out his hand to her. “Allow me to take you to your seat.”

Alayne took his hand, trying to disguise her reluctance. She glided into the hall with him towards her seat.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice that little outburst in the ward earlier,” he said through his teeth. “You should not take for granted this match I’ve worked hard to make for you. Do you want your husband to dislike you?”

She wanted to rip her hand away from him. “He is sleeping with Myranda.”

“Many people are. Do not take it personal. He is a man, and men are wont to take their pleasure wherever they can find it. You should have learned that by now. You are his betrothed, not her. And if she is so willing to bear a bastard, let her have at it.” He smiled at Lady Waynwood from where she sat on the dais. “I must leave you now, sweetling.” He grinned at her, but it did not quite reach his eyes.

The cooks had prepared roast beef and bean stew for the evening, along with loaves of hot bread and wheels of cheese and baskets of fruit. It was neither as elaborate nor expensive as the dishes served during the first nights of the feast, but Alayne was happy for some calm for the first time in a long while. She hailed a servant to fetch her some tea with leaves of ol’Molly. _My head is like to never stop aching._ She looked to where Sandor Clegane stood guard behind Sweetrobin as the boy spooned his meal. The man’s gaze remained fixed straight ahead.

Many came to ask after her well being, as was proper. She kept having to put her spoon down to speak with each of them. Ser Byron kissed her hand a half a million times before he finally left, and Ser Roland Waynwood made a jape about her being hard headed. Lady Waynwood and Lord Nestor expressed their regret at the situation. Harry the heir himself paid her a visit, tall and handsome as ever. He wore a fine doublet patterned with the red and white diamonds of house Hardyng. He took a seat by her side.

“Enjoying the stew?”

“Lord Royce’s cooks can make a delicacy out of dirt.”

He smiled, looked at her with his blue eyes. “If I had known that rat was such a creature I would have cut his throat long ago.”

“Had I known I might have done it myself.”

“Ladies are not capable of killing,” he said.

She took a sip of her warm tea. “Is that so?” Alayne nodded towards where Brienne was seated with her squirrel-faced squire. “What do you call that?”

“She is more a beast than a lady, if we are being honest,” he laughed.

“She saved my life.”

He coughed. “Th-that is true. I suppose I owe her thanks.”

“I suppose you do.” Alayne had long abandoned the food for the round mug of tea. She held it between her hands and inhaled the steam. After a short while, the throbbing in her head subsided. She continued to make small talk with her betrothed, noticing as Petyr continued to glance in their direction every few minutes or so. _Look all you want, but I am no longer a piece to maneuver as you wish._

Harry offered to take her back to her chamber then, and she agreed. She was awfully tired and achy, and her corset was causing her pain where she had been kicked. When they arrived at her door, she kissed him dutifully. 

“Please,” she whispered when he tried to deepen the kiss, “I cannot tonight. My head, it still hurts,” she lied.

“Of course. Forgive me, I forgot myself.”

“It’s quite alright. Good night, Harry.”

“Good night, Alayne.”

Long after he left and Sansa had put away her gown and jewelry, she crawled beneath her coverlet. When she had kissed Harry it made her think of another kiss, rougher and lewder. Clegane had ignored her all evening. _He is embarrassed by my behavior._ She had acted so irrationally, like some wanton wench. _But he kissed me, too._ Then Littlefinger’s voice was in her head. _He is a man. And men are wont to take their pleasure where they can find it._

She turned in her bed. Her chamber was spacious and decorated with ornate furniture. The wardrobe was tall and broad, carved of dark mahogany and the vanity was made of the same rich material. A curtained door lead to the balcony, having remained shut since the cool winter air approached the Gates of the Moon. Her featherbed was roomy enough for three, with fine sheer curtains falling from the canopy. Beneath the door some light from the torches in the hall shown through.

Then something moved there. The shadows of a pair of legs. Her heart began to race. _Not again. Not here, not now. _The shadows played back and forth, and then stopped right before the door. Whoever it was just stood there deathly still.__

Sansa got to her feet as quietly as she could manage. Moonlight lit the chamber when she moved the curtain from the window. The dagger Brienne had gifted her sat on the nightstand. She took it, held it the way she was taught, but felt completely and utterly useless even so. _Gods, give me strength._ She walked silently to the door. Reached for the knob.

There was a knock.

She froze, like the statues in the Sept. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me.” His voice was the sound of steel on stone.

Sansa let out a shaky breath she did not realize she was holding. “A moment, please.” She quickly placed the dagger in a drawer in her nightstand and threw on a cloak to cover her chemise. When she opened the door, he stood some feet away. He has no longer in his heavy armor. Instead he wore a long sleeved mailshirt that hugged his chest and arms. A sword and dagger hung on the belt around his waist. He glanced at where she gripped the cloak above her chest, looked away.

She stood within her chamber. “What is it? It is late.”

“I’m to guard your chamber at night from now on,” he grated.

Her heart gave an unwarranted leap. She swallowed, calmed herself. “You woke me to tell me this?”

He ran a calloused hand through his straight, black hair, showing the full extent of his burns as he looked at her feet. “I wanted to be sure you were safe, and that you knew.”

“Well, thank you for telling me.” She moved the door to close it, but he spoke again.

“Wait-” He looked at her face now, and she saw a war raging on behind his eyes. “About the other night, I… I don’t know what came over me. I should have never-”

“Stop,” she whispered roughly. She peeked her head out in the hall, checking for eavesdroppers. _This is unseemly, but…_ “Come in,” she said, holding the door open. 

Sandor Clegane was rooted where he stood, staring at her with surprise. Sansa nodded reassuringly. His hand went to grip the hilt of his sword as if he were about to enter some battle. He took two strides and was in her chamber in a heartbeat. She closed the door behind him. _He is here, now, turn around and offer him a seat._ They were both quiet for a long moment, until Sansa moved to the other end of the room. 

“Please, sit.”

As he walked over to the chair he looked around her room, taking stock of the items of furniture and trinkets on the vanity. He picked up a carved little mockingbird that Littlefinger had given her, examined it, and then set it back down. He removed the scabbard from his hips as he sat facing her.

Some demon of mischief took hold of her then, and she climbed atop her featherbed and sat comfortably. His eyes darkened immediately.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“Do I like what?” His voice was rough.

“All this,” she waved a hand around, showing her chamber.

“Smaller than I’d imagined. At least smaller than my chamber in the Tower of the Guard.” When before he could barely glance at her, now he sat staring at her as if there was nothing else around.

“You are part of the royal guard now, and I am merely a bastard.” Sansa could not help herself. “So you had imagined…”

He gave her a questioning look.

“Imagined what the inside of my chamber looked like.”

His scarred face frowned at her. “You were in the godswood when he attacked you. Looking for me, might be?”

She blushed, looked away. “You weren’t there.” _It was a stupid thing to even expect it._

“I would have been. It was Brienne’s shift, but I should have followed you anyway.”

“Brienne did well. She saved me.”

“Not before he got a good beating in,” he spat. “Can’t trust anyone but yourself to do decent work, seems like.”

_He is blaming himself,_ Sansa realized. Her slippers reached the floor, and she walked towards her vanity, picked up the wood carving of the mockingbird. “I want to have all of these burned. And all of the dresses as well. I want the jewelry melted down and this whole farce long forgotten.” She eyed him through the mirror.

“What of the man himself?”

A chill ran through her. “I haven’t decided yet.”

He stood, and walked to where she stood. A heavy hand came to rest lightly on her shoulder. Sansa looked up at him, gripped at her cloak to make sure it was still there.

“Anything you decide,” he rasped, “I’m with you. Through and through. Use me as you will.” 

Sansa’s heart was beating so hard she thought he might hear it. _You are the second warrior to declare your loyalty to me today._ She managed a smile, leaned into his warm touch, but he drew his hand away. 

“Don’t do that,” she pleaded as she reached for his hand.

“You’re getting married in less than a fortnight,” he said harshly.

“I don’t want to marry him,” she retorted, striding angrily to her window.

“Then why do it? He’s forcing you, isn’t he-”

“He brokered the marriage, yes, but it is in my best interest that I marry him. He is the heir to the Eyrie and Vale of Arryn. Petyr doesn’t believe Sweetrobin has much longer to live.” She closed her eyes. “I need this alliance to win back Winterfell.”

“So you intend to show your true face, then. Well, Sansa Stark is married to the Imp, or did you forget?”

She sighed miserably. “I don’t know. Petyr has a plan.”

“Unless the Imp’s head rolls its way up to Cersei’s doorstep, there’s no way out of it.”

The ache in her head was slowly returning. She touched at the base of her skull. “He will find a way.” _He always does._

Another hand came to rub the back of her head. It felt soothing. “Does it hurt?” he asked.

“A little,” she sighed, leaning into his hand. _That feels so good._ She closed her eyes, and a moment later his fingers threaded through her hair, lightly scratching her scalp. Then he tugged, not ungently, bringing her chin up. She opened her eyes to say something, but then his face was close to hers and for a moment she thought he meant to kiss her. _What’s one more kiss? It makes no difference._

His warm breath ghosted against her. “I should be guarding your door. From the outside.” 

“You are doing better, guarding me personally.” Her hand reached from under her cloak to touch his chainmail, felt the solid torso that lay just beyond. She felt a rush of excitement for daring to do so.

“This is dangerous,” he whispered hoarsely. 

“You said that last night, too.” His black hair cast a shadow against the scarred side of his face. She dared further, and slid her hand around to his heavily muscled back, pressed lightly. It was enough. The hand in her hair tightened again, and another came to wrap around her as his lips met hers. The kisses were light and shallow at first, but then Sansa caught his lower lip between her teeth for a moment and he nearly forced her mouth to open for him. He clutched tightly at her cloak near her shoulder blade, and for a mad instant she wanted to drop the offending garment completely. _No, then it has gone too far._ She fought with the urge while she kissed and sucked on his lips, the scarred corner of his mouth feeling rough and ridged compared to the other, softer and smoother side. Her hand slid down the valley of his spine as the other clutched at her cloak. She had never touched a man as she was now, let alone kissed one as such. _It is just like in my dreams._ Distant memories came flooding back to her, of dreaming of the Hound. 

He broke the kiss, both feeling as though they had resurfaced from some oceanic depth. He touched his forehead to hers with labored breathing and closed his eyes. She still felt his tight grip on her, but he released her slowly and her scalp felt sore where he had tugged her hair. 

Some madness took hold of her. “Stay,” she whispered.

His eyes widened at her through the darkness, and she scrambled to explain herself. “I mean, on the chair. Just sit there for a while. I’ll feel safer that way. At least until I sleep.”

He hesitated, and then finally nodded. The floorboards creaked as he walked over to the chair and sat slowly. He spread his legs wide and leaned back, and Sansa tried not to look at his lap as she walked over to the side of her featherbed. _If he is anything like the other men I have kissed he must surely have a similar reaction right now._ Suddenly, she remembered something Myranda had once said about Lothor Brune, and how his size betrayed what lay hidden underneath. She felt a rush of blood flood her face and chest and tried to push the thought away. 

It took her some courage to drop the cloak and slide quickly back under her coverlet. She dared not look him in the eye as she did so. When she was snug and warm, she peeked out to where he sat, examining the blade of his dagger as if it was the most interesting thing in the world.

“Good night,” she said.

“Good night, little bird,” he rasped.

Sleep took hold of her soon after, and she dreamt that she was climbing a spiraling, narrow staircase in a tower in the Vale. Small cracks in the wall shown bright, white lights where bits of icy snow were coming through. She climbed and climbed, and a building suspense for what rested at the top became too overbearing. The steps became old and filthy, and soon she had to crouch so as not to hit the ceiling. Her fear grew before taking each subsequent step. Then there were no steps left, only darkness. A voice spoke out, and she woke abruptly in her chambers. 

The soft light of dawn showed through the window, and near her wardrobe the light cast shadows on the vacant chair.


	7. Chapter 7

Biscuits and milk were a common morning meal at the Gates of the Moon. Alayne dipped the sugared treat in her cup and took a bite off the soggy end. Myranda sat on the bench opposite, wearing a grey woolen dress and brown roughspun cloak. She was saying something in between mouthfuls of yogurt, but Alayne was too busy staring to notice. At her smooth hands, her tongue as it licked the food from her plump lips. Wondering if they had brought her betrothed any pleasure, and considering with some envy whether she could even compete. Myranda was a buxom young woman, and Sansa knew her own breasts just barely filled the palms of her hands.

For all the talking she was doing, her friend had failed to mention anything about her escapades with Harry as of yet. _Well, I have escapades of my own now,_ she thought, though they were not to the extent that Randa likely took hers. Clegane had continued to guard her door for the past two nights, but he did not knock again, and she could not bring herself to open it unprovoked. She did not want to appear too eager.

It shocked her that she would be eager at all.

They had fallen into a strange routine where they would exchange their pleasantries without so much as a glance and then just as quickly he would be on his way. It happened in the inner ward, and last night during supper. Alayne tried to prevent her mind from delving too deeply into his actions, but she could not help herself. _Is he embarrassed by what happened? Or worse, he realized he did not like it._ Her mind clouded with the possibilities. 

“Alayne, are you even listening? What was it like?” Randa’s tight brown curls were bound up in a hairnet.

“Pardon? What was what like?”

“The whole interrogation! My father is terribly fond of interrogating people.”

“It went well. I just told Lord Nestor the truth,” she said, “that the Mad Mouse meant to rape me and Brienne showed up at the right moment to run him through.”

“But why were you two in the Godswood?”

“Am I to suffer yet another interrogation from yet another Royce? I am trying to eat.” She took another bite of the soft biscuit. “Here’s a secret for you,” she said wickedly as she was done chewing. Myranda did love secrets. “Sometimes I go to the Godswood to meet Harry for… oh, you know.” The girl’s face grew sullen. “Anyway, I suppose the rat caught on eventually, sought to steal me away for himself before Harry arrived.”

It took a moment for her friend to respond. “Here I thought Alayne to be an innocent maid who blushed at the slightest indecency.”

That awoke something in her, like a match striking up a flame.

“Things are not always as they seem.” She took the last bite of her biscuit and rose from her seat, suddenly eager to find Petyr Baelish.

“Where are you going?” Myranda asked, a look of confusion on her round face.

Alayne gave her a look, and smiled when the girl’s face paled. She pretended not to hear it when Myranda threw down her spoon in frustration.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lord Belmore and Lord Graffton encountered Alayne on her way down to the granaries. Lord Belmore kissed her on the hand and his belly nearly keeled him over in the process. 

“Good day, my lords. Is my father here?”

“Down examining the granaries, my dear. Do be careful, it is dark and muggy, you wouldn’t want to dirty your fine skirts.” The whiskers of his bushy mustache spread with his smile. She smiled sweetly back at him, then lit a taper and continued on her way down the stone steps. Petyr stood with his back turned to her, writing in his leger book. He was straight backed in his dark grey doublet and turned at the sound of her steps.

“Alayne,” he said, closing the book and crossing his arms. “It feels like a lifetime.”

“You haven’t summoned me in days.”

“Forgive me, sweetling. I’ve been busy with these stubborn lords and managing their stock. No time for pleasure with winter on our heels.” He smirked.

She smiled, but then thought better and grinned girlishly at her feet. _He likes when I do that._ “Father, I came here to ask a favor.”

He took a couple of steps nearer to her. “Anything for my daughter.”

“It concerns Sweetrobin.” His face fell. “He has shown signs of improvement. There haven’t been any shaking fits for over a week now. Ever since the Elder Brother came here.” He gave her an inquisitive look. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the man has the gift of healing. I think, if we were to provide lodgings and a steady pay for the man, we could see the end of these shaking fits for good. He can save his life.”

There was some silence, and Alayne thought for a moment she had misinterpreted Petyr. _He would never admit to such a thing as to want to let Sweetrobin die. He’s just a boy._ As much as Alayne was putting up a charade for him, so was he for her. _He is showing me Petyr, but underneath he is still Littlefinger_. For a moment, though, she thought he might let his true face show.

“We have a fully capable and highly experienced Maester in our employ. The Elder Brother is a beggar selling you lies and tricks.”

“He is a holy man-”

“So was Clegane, until some easy coin presented itself. Then he turned heel almost as quickly as he did at the Blackwater. No, sweetling, I will not abide it.”

She clenched her fists and pouted her lips like a child, just the way he liked. “Just a moment ago you promised me anything. If you would see Sweetrobin yourself you would notice the difference. He has improved, truly.” She rounded her Tully blue eyes.

His eyes darkened. “Now, Alayne, I know how deeply you care for Sweetrobin but these powers you speak of are unknown and dangerous. Take care to consider whether you _really_ want this man caring for the boy.” He gave her a knowing look, but she pretended not to notice. “I’ll make you a deal.” _Perfect._ “We’ll give the Elder Brother as long as your wedding day and see where we go from there.”

She smiled. “Thank y-”

“Ah ah, I wasn’t done.” His hands came up to caress her arms. “I’d like a proper kiss in exchange for my generosity.”

_From me, or from my mother?_ Alayne thought of the words Myranda had said to her before she left her at the morning meal. She grinned brightly at Petyr. The last thing she saw before she kissed him was his pointy little beard. On his breath was the scent and taste of mint. She let him make his sweeps into her mouth, and it took her some effort to respond in kind. She wrapped her arms around his waist. _Charm him, entrance him, bewitch him._

“Don’t get too carried away now, Alayne,” he said breathlessly. “Have you been practicing?”

She showed him a devilish smile. “Perhaps I have.”

“That Harry has no idea how lucky he is.”

Alayne pulled away from him. “About him,” she began, “I had been thinking… what do we mean to do about my previous predicament? Surely I cannot marry him and be…who I am all at once.”

“Sweetling, do you trust me?” He waited till she gave him a curt nod. “Then trust that I know a thing or two about how to deal with the faith of the Seven. When I was Master of Coin in King’s Landing I saw many a marriage annulled and dissolved for circumstances much less dire than yours. You present a special case. It is good we have a Septon with us for a while longer. No matter how lowly these beggars are they could prove the key to your annulment.”

“What do you mean?” She began to worry.

“When you read that letter from the crown on my desk, did you catch what was said about one Margaery Tyrell?”

“She was imprisoned for lechery and treason.” Alayne felt sorry for the young woman. She had been kind to her.

“Yes, and do you know how she was proved innocent of one of those charges?” she shook her head. “A Septon confirmed that her maidenhead remained in tact. So, sweetling-”

“I must do the same.” She became nauseated. “In order to prove the marriage was never consummated.” The thought of having the old Septon under her skirts was humiliating in and of itself.

“It is a barbaric practice, I agree. But it is nothing to be ashamed of when the Septon declares you a maiden and your previous shackles are broken. I only do hope you did not give Harry more than he needs. Either way, I’m sure the Septon can be swayed.”

“No, I haven’t gone so far…” Her mind was racing. _He found a way. Tyrion, wherever you are, I am sorry._

“It shouldn’t take longer than a few minutes. You could have it over and done with today if you so wish it.”

“No, I-I have my moon’s blood,” she admitted embarrassingly. 

“Ah, well.” His hand patted her awkwardly on the arm. _So much for bewitchment._ “Another time then.”

Alayne stood there as she watched him walk away. Not only had she appeared too eager during their kiss but she had done well to disgust him with talk of her womanly privacies. The granaries were stacked in large round barrels that filled the vaults to the ceiling. She stood there for a moment in the dark, the taper barely managing to illuminate a few paces ahead. _I must do better when I see him next,_ she promised herself. It would not do to show Littlefinger her true disgust for his advances. There was neither wit nor seduction that he did not see through in the people he interacted with. But Alayne had something other people did not. _The look of my mother._

That would be her weapon. _And my courtesy my armor._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At the top of the stair, clad in riding boots and leathers, Mya stood waiting for her. Her arms were crossed against her roughspun brown tunic. In one hand she held a wheel of rope.

“Care to join me in walking the mules?”

Alayne did not typically enjoy being near the smelly stables, but the hills where the mules and horses walked for exercise were long and clear and the sun shown brightly that day. 

“Come on, Wiley’s got some fresh apples in the stables. We can share some.”

“Alright,” Alayne said, picking up her skirts.

In the outer ward, the stable was a short structure but long and wide, crowded with the mounts of both residents and visitors. Mya had to work longer hours to make sure the mules were well kept and not bullied by the other, larger horses. There were rows upon rows of holding places for them, in some there were two horses to one place. A couple of bannermen were leading their mounts out to be ridden. Behind them was a shaggy haired young boy rushing to get through. He almost ran headlong into Mya, but she caught him. He looked very pale.

“Woah there, what’s the matter?”

He could not have been older than nine. The boy looked up at Mya, and just shook his head.

“Come now, spit it out. What’s happened?”

Wiley looked back once, then said “He scares me.”

Mya asked him who, but Alayne saw him before he could answer. He was leaning toward his horse’s stable, calling to his squire to get the saddle on. The long sky blue cape hung down from his narrow shoulders, and when he turned his eyes were restless. _All he likes is gold and boys and killing._ As Ser Lyn Corbray approached them, she quickly grabbed Wiley by the shoulders.

“Stay away from that man, Wiley, do you understand me? He is a bad man.”

The boy nodded obediently, and then ran away.

Mya left her side then, walking in Lyn’s direction. 

“Mya it isn’t worth it. He’s a dangerous man. Let me talk to him.” Alayne remembered what Littlefinger had told her about how he keeps his catspaw in his service. _With gold and boys and promises._ It disgusted her to think of this creature praying on young boys as he did. The knight saw them as they approached. “Ladies.” His long brown hair was tied at the base of his neck.

“Ser,” she said. “Taking him for a run?” She placed a hand on the bannister.

“Horses need to be ridden daily to maintain their strength. Fetch me a bucket of water, you.” He spoke to Mya. She gave him a dark look before turning to do as he said.

“I noticed you speaking to that boy, Wiley. Between the two of us, I’d be wary to let him anywhere near my skin, if you take my meaning.”

He looked suspiciously at her as he adjusted the saddle on his grey spotted horse. 

“No, I do not.”

“You haven’t noticed?” she asked, taking care to sound a bit shocked. “Well, I don’t fault you that. He wears those long sleeved tunics and breeches to hide the scars. He’s got the pimply sickness. Maester Colemen says they are terribly contagious if you were to come into contact with them.”

“I must say, Lady Alayne, I do find it odd you would seek to protect me after you insulted me.”

_You said I was plain looking in front of my betrothed._ She smiled sweetly at him. “Take it as a peace offering, ser.” _And gods forbid I ever protect you from anything._

Mya arrived with the pail of water and a sack full of apples and bread and cheese. Corbray snapped for his squire to give his horse drink while the sinewy man climbed atop the beast. Without so much as another word, the man was led off by his squire and cantered off onto the outer ward. 

“Gods. I wish his brother would drop dead just to send his arse back to Heart’s Home,” the raven-haired girl spat.

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Alayne said sarcastically, “Lyonel has got his wife with child, though. And Lyn has won wings.”

“Another three years of chasing him away from the children.” That sent a chill through Alayne. She could not fathom how many innocent boys Littlefinger had sold for Corbray’s service, and she doubted he cared at all. _So long as he got what he wanted._

Mya handed her the sack, and the two girls left the stables as Mya guided the mules out all together. Near the end of the line, the larger stables were reserved for the more raucous stallions. A large black destrier was housed in one of them, and Alayne recognized it to be Clegane’s horse. It huffed harshly as they passed, and paced around its enclosure. He had kept the beast since his days in King’s Landing. She wondered if anyone would take the poor creature out to ride today.

Just outside the stables, the girls were met with another of the winged guard. Brienne stood tall as ever, with her straw colored hair combed to the side, short and choppy. She squinted in the sun.

“Good day, ladies. Might I inquire as to where you’re headed?”

Mya looked at the woman-knight dumbly. “What’s it look like?” She tugged at the rope tied to the docile creatures.

“Forgive her, she’s in a mood. We’re taking the mules to walk.” Knowing Brienne would ask to accompany them, she added, “Would you care to join us, Brienne?”

The freckle faced woman nodded. Mya led their party out to a fenced enclosure on the hillside where the mules would be left to trot about as they pleased. A few horses were there now, grazing in the grass. There was a chilly autumn breeze and the forestry outside the ward was red and orange with the season, but the sun shown gloriously and Alayne thought it a good enough day for a picnic. She found a comfortable spot under an oak tree not far from the fences.

Brienne stood a few paces off, looking at her sadly. 

Alayne opened the sack and tore off a piece of bread and cheese. “Would you like some?” she offered, but the warrior shook her head. Mya was off by the fences, smacking a horse away from a small mule and yelling obscenities.

“I assume you’ve worked out some sort of schedule with Clegane,” she ventured.

Brienne looked out to where Mya was, far off. “Yes. He serves nights and I serve during the day. The man has taken to sleeping until the late afternoon, now.”

“I saw his war horse in the stables. Does anyone take it out for riding?”

“No one can handle the beast, from what I hear. I’m sure he cares for it when he can.” Brienne sighed. “Does it bother you that he guards you during the night? Because if it does I am willing to switch if he scares you, my lady.”

Alayne almost laughed at that. “No, I do not fear him.” She thought about it a bit, then decided to go on. “He was kind to me, when I was a girl in the King’s court. Harsh with his speech, but kind nonetheless. Joffrey made them all beat me, the King’s Guard. But Clegane never did.” She looked at Brienne then, curiosity writ across her face. “There was a mob once. Some of the court were cut down and raped and worse. But he saved me from that, and from Joffrey’s wrath more than once.” Sansa recalled how he had lied for her during the King’s tourney, even though the Hound hated liars.

“I had heard they had you beaten. It pained me to hear such a thing.”

Sansa looked down at the bread in her hands. “It was so long ago I hardly remember.” But she did. She remembered every strike of the flat of their swords, the slaps and punches and ripping. They were all knights of the King’s Guard, and as a girl she had believed those knights would be the soul of chivalry. But then she remembered that day in the Red Keep, when he had held his sword to her throat and told her the truths she would not believe. _Knights are for killing,_ he said, and he was not wrong. 

It was good she did not surround herself with knights, then.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Late into the night, after the castle had fallen asleep and the moon shined its light into her chamber, Sansa waited. The torches were lit outside her chamber door and, almost on cue, she saw the familiar two shadows settle there. The young woman stood from her featherbed and lit a lantern on the dresser. She donned a soft blue silk robe that had belonged to her Aunt Lysa and smoothed out her brown hair in the mirror.

Her heart beat nervously as her hand reached for the door. When she opened it just a finger’s width, it was loud enough for him to hear. She peaked through the crack, and Sandor Clegane’s scarred face stared down at her apprehensively. She knew what she was doing was bold, but she saw no other way they could speak privately.

“Will you come in, please?” she whispered. It had been two days since they had said anything more than pleasantries to one another.

“I have my duties,” he growled, crossing his arms over his mailshirt. 

She almost pouted on instinct, but then remembered that only worked with Petyr.

“I must speak with you-”

“Then spit it out.”

“Privately, please.”

He huffed, then pushed his way into her chamber and shut the door behind him. The lock clicked into place. He stood as he had outside the door, the only difference being that now he was on the inside. His dark, lanky hair hung over the burned side of his face. There were a few lines from hard years writ across his heavy brow that had not been there when she was a girl. His eyes looked down at her sternly.

“Have I offended you?” she asked, confused.

“You offend yourself, inviting a man into your chambers like this,” he rasped. “Do you do this with all the others? Tease the handsome knights and guards to your service?” he said harshly. “Keep it up and you’ll best Cersei at her own game.”

She stared wide-eyed at him, humiliated. “Just two nights ago you swore to defend me. Now you insult me like this?”

“Might be I came to my senses. Don’t need false kisses and promises to perform my duties, and I sure as seven hells,” he pointed at her, “won’t fall for the tricks Littlefinger taught you.”

Sansa bravely slapped his accusing finger away. “Is that what you think? That I am some whore Littlefinger has sent out to do his bidding? Think again,” she seethed, “it is him I save my tricks for, him and all the others who mean to manipulate me. I am surviving, just as I had in King’s Landing, with or without you.”

“Aye, surviving with more chirping lies and kisses. What’s next for me, little bird, your sweet cunt?”

Her hand lashed out to strike him, but he caught her wrist in his grip. Tears of frustration welled in her eyes. “Let go of me,” she trembled. “Get out.”

“You make the mistake,” he rasped, “of thinking me one of your valiant knights that you love so much. Need I remind you every time?” He let go of her wrist, turned to leave, but Sansa spoke again.

“Is that it, then? You mean to prove some point, that you are still the Hound with your angry words and hateful ways? Someone once told me that man died on the Trident.”

The large hand that rested near the lock clenched into a fist.

“Then why,” he grated, under his breath. “Why let a beast near you, kiss you…”

“Because I _want_ you to,” she let out. “You said once you could always smell a lie. Well, find it now.” She understood now, understood his anger and outburst. He did not believe she would want him, want him to kiss her as he had. But she did want it, needed it almost. She waited for him to speak, to move, to do anything. His back was to her, one arm leaning against the door near the lock. He lowered his head.

“I’ve wanted…” he said, and Sansa struggled to hear him. “The night of the Blackwater and every night since then I thought of you, if you were safe, where you were. I thought,” and he turned to her now, “I should have just fucking taken you, willing or no. Then I heard they married you to the bloody dwarf and I never wanted to kill him more.” He paused then, and Sansa saw shame in his eyes. _He envied him,_ she realized. _He envied Tyrion._ She looked at him with concern, and he continued.

“They said you grew leathery wings and flew away,” he barked a laugh. “I knew I’d lost you, then. Never thought I’d see you again, and here you are.” He straightened, looked her straight in the eye. “And now I have to watch you marry another one of these fools.” 

Her heart ached in her chest. “Do you think it was any easier for me? I was glad to have you in King’s Landing. I was a wolf in a lion’s den, and you were my only friend. When you left I would often lie awake at night thinking whether I made the right choice, and then you would visit me in my dreams and… and I prayed for you,” she was breathing hard now, not realizing what it was she was trying to express. 

“I missed you,” she said, surprising herself.

He appeared to have the same reaction, and he did not have to say it but she saw in his face he had missed her as well. She chanced a step forward, and he did not seem to react. Sansa closed the distance between them, wrapped her arms around his thick torso and pressed her cheek against the hard, warm mail over his chest. Slowly and ever so cautiously his heavy arms came around to embrace her. She lifted her head, chin poking into his chest. “Will you stay and talk with me?”

“It’s late,” he said, and she felt how his chest rumbled when he spoke. “You should sleep.”

Letting go of him, she led him by hand to the only cushioned chair in her chamber. 

“I don’t feel like sleeping.”

Sandor Clegane looked very out of place in the girlish chamber. There were flowery sheets and coverlets on her featherbed, and on the chair were embroidered more flowers and birds in flight. He looked up when he sat, and she let her hand slide out of his. Then she took her place on the large featherbed. His eyes softened, and for a moment she could of sworn they roved over her legs. It made her feel naked, and she blushed at the thought.

He seemed to be waiting for her to say something, so before he could go back to brooding again she started with a question. “What was your time like in the Quiet Isle? And don’t just say it was quiet. I heard that from the Septon Meribald and it was not amusing.”

The man narrowed his eyes, seemed to consider what to say. “It was destitute and sobering,” he grated.

Sansa raised a brow at that. “You mean to say you haven’t had a drink in all these years? The feasts must have been difficult.” She remembered how he had favored the sour red. _All a man needs. Or a woman._

“You get used to it. The buggers barely had enough coin for food let alone drink. The first weeks were rough, sweated like an animal most nights, had these shaking fits. I was lucky the Elder Brother was there.”

“I did not know alcohol could do that to someone.”

He snorted. “Neither did I, until it happened.”

They were both quiet for a long moment. His elbows were on the armrests, and he looked down at his lap when he took out his dagger to play with it, as he had the first night. The blade turned this way and that, sometimes catching the candlelight. Sansa yawned. 

“How did you come to be here,” he asked suddenly.

She thought back to those final days in the Keep. “Petyr had sent a spy to lure me away. It was Dontos, that fool knight we saved at the tourney,” she smiled briefly. “He killed him when I got on the boat.” She lay down near the edge of the featherbed, closest to him. She felt more than saw his eyes follow her. “I don’t know whether you know the story, but Littlefinger loved my mother. He was a ward in my grandfather’s castle in Riverrun.”

“The whole of Westeros knows that story,” he rasped.

“He thinks I look like her.” She stared up at her canopy. “The way he talks to me, kisses me, sometimes I think he believes I really am her.”

“He kisses you?”

She had not realized she said it until it was too late. Sansa turned her head to look at him past the hills and valleys of her blanket. His fist clenched around the hilt of the dagger. It brought back a memory of when he had held it to her neck as green fire filled the night sky.

“If he ever hurts you I will not hesitate to cut his throat.” His voice was solemn.

“Will you use that same dagger?” she asked.

Sandor looked at her with purpose. She raised herself on one elbow. “You needn’t worry about Littlefinger. Leave him to me.” In some ways she sounded as though she were already plotting something against the man, but in truth she did not know how to counter him. _But I am putting the pieces together, slowly._

“What forced you to leave the castle,” he grated.

The girl rested her head back down. “Joffrey was poisoned at his wedding feast.”

Then it struck her. _The hairnet, oh gods._

“Who poisoned him?” It was more a demand than a question.

“I did,” she said blankly. “Not directly so, but I carried the poison unknowingly. It was a hairnet of purple amethysts. The Strangler, they called it.” _And I have it in my possession still._ She knew exactly where. It sat in the jewelry box on the vanity, disguised in plain sight as though it were any other ordinary hairnet. 

He laughed for a while. “Then you sprouted wings and flew off.” She laughed then, too, until they fell into a silence again. The single candle she had lit was waning now, and the room was almost pitch black.

“Tell me about Arya.”

He sighed. “That one was more wolf than girl. She dressed like a boy with her hair all chopped up you wouldn’t even recognize her. But I did. When I ran into those outlaws, they accused me of a long list of crimes but they had no evidence. Until your wolf sister showed up, complaining about that butcher’s boy I cut down on the King’s Road.” Sansa let his words transport her back to those days. She closed her eyes, listened. “They forced me to fight to prove my innocence in the eyes of the gods. That bastard Dondarrion had a flaming sword. Hah!” Sansa felt a chill run through her at his bark of a laugh. “I cut him down, but not without collecting some more scars for myself. My arm…”

She listened to every word, up until he began recounting the brawl that had broken out at the Inn at the Crossroads. The last thing she remembered of that night was an ache in her heart when she learned Arya had killed a man by her own hand. It sickened her that her sister might be in grave danger even now. Sometime in the night sleep had taken hold of her, and when she slept she dreamt she was back in her old chamber in King’s Landing, and there was a loud shouting and banging on her door. She was backed against the far wall of the room, near the window. The door was breaking down by the force of those outside. She turned, and when she drew back her shades her breath caught in her throat. _Wildfire._

There was a sheen of sweat on her brow when she woke in the early hours of the morning. She still lay at the edge of her featherbed, but her blankets covered her warm body. And there was a pillow beneath her head that she did not remember placing there.


	8. Chapter 8

Only one week remained until the wedding day. Petyr had sent for some dressmakers in the afternoon to take her ideas for the bridal gown. When she inquired as to whether the color scheme would set off some rumors, he quickly dispelled her worries. 

“They are old maids who are being paid the equivalent of their yearly wages in coin for this one gown. I have made it clear not a single one of them will see a copper if word were to get out before the proper time comes.” He had smiled at her after.

It was late afternoon, and the three women were in her chamber now. One seemed to be of middling age, a tall woman with long, straight black hair that snaked down her back in a braid. Another was an old seamstress with a head full of grey hair, but they said her eyes and hands were as good as though she were forty years younger. The third girl was there to assist the women with carrying and laying out the fabrics. Strewn across her featherbed and armchair were rolls of Myrish lace and rich silks in all sorts of colors. The woman with the braid neared Sansa with a sketchbook in hand. “My lady, might I make a suggestion?”

“Of course,” she said. The woman, who was named Myrtle, began to make rushed scribblings on the parchment.

“You have such an elegantly long neck and your clavicle is divine. I think a low cut bodice with sleeves just slightly off the shoulder will accentuate your best qualities, hm? What say you, Taena?” She spoke to the old woman. 

“Too whorish,” she croaked. The young girl nearby giggled.

“Oh, pay her no heed! She is old aged and old fashioned. This is how all the young brides are wearing it these days.”

“I think it sounds nice,” Sansa said. “I shall like the sleeves to be buttoned at the wrist, and I want the gown to be these colors here and with this pattern.” She selected a piece of silver and cream silk that hung from her armchair. _The colors of House Stark._

“Grey? But grey is so dull, my lady,” Myrtle complained. “I do enjoy the cream color, but I would suggest something more vibrant to match. Perhaps a bright blue or turquoise? They are in fashion now.”

“They are the colors of my house,” Sansa said distantly.

“Very well,” Myrtle sighed and then handed her the book. “I’ll have the bodice made of the pattern, with lace ties of cloth-of-silver.” When she saw what the woman had created with quill and parchment, it satisfied her immensely. “I can hardly wait to see it made.”

“What of the maiden cloak?” the old woman mentioned.

Sansa almost could not bring herself to say. “I shall like to have my house sigil embroidered upon it.”

The women waited. “Well, what is it, then?”

She glanced down at the sketchbook in her hands. “May I?” she asked, reaching for the quill and ink. The black haired woman handed her the items, a curious look on her face. “There truly is no need, my lady, I am well studied in all the house sigils in the Vale.” But Sansa did not listen, and instead penned the sharp corners of the fur and snout of the direwolf’s head above the sketching of her bridal gown. She recalled her own direwolf, from a time far away from her now. _Just like you, Lady._

When she handed back the book, Myrtle glanced at her drawing, and then grew wide-eyed. “No wonder Baelish was so adamant we keep our mouths shut.” Her gaze looked back to Sansa, then back at the book. “I want to see!” the younger one said, but Myrtle clutched the book to her chest. 

“I’m sorry, dear, but you will have to wait till the wedding. Taena, we have work to do.”

The dressmakers rolled up their silks and fabrics and said their courtesies as they left, leaving Sansa alone in her chambers once again. Soon after, she went to her trunk to find her dark green cloak and riding skirts. Harry had promised to take her riding in the fields and nearby forestry, and Sansa had readily agreed, eager to leave the castle grounds for once. She slipped on her leather gloves and laced her tall, brown boots tightly. She brushed her hair from her face and fixed it up with a thin, gold hairnet. Harry would be waiting for her in the stables.

The afternoon sun shown bright in the sky, and there were many men and boys training in the outer ward. Some knights were sparring with blunted swords, making a loud clangor near the armory. Alayne picked up her skirts as she walked over mud and grass on the way to the stables. She spotted Harry instantly, dressed in a handsome riding doublet that fitted his clean-limbed body. His blonde hair was combed back, light blue eyes gazing at her from a distance. She smiled as she approached. “Good day, ser.”

“And to you, my lady. You look stunning even in riding clothes. I dare say even more so.”

“Shall I arrive to our ceremony in these, then?” She lifted her skirts just enough to show him her thick riding boots.

He leaned in to kiss her cheek and whisper in her ear. “No, but you’re welcome to wear them for the bedding.”

Alayne felt a nervous thrill run through her. She laughed flirtatiously. “Shouldn’t you have had our mounts saddled by now?”

He looked around, whistled at a stable boy. “Oy! The lady wants her horse saddled. Hurry on!” To Alayne he said. “I want to show you something first.” He held out his elbow for her to take. They walked across the yard over to where some sweat soaked men were at their practice. 

“Over there, where Albar’s sparring with the Hound. The man’s knocked down five knights and counting. They’re placing bets now.”

The men were grappling in the dirt, divested of their armor. Ser Albar Royce wore a loose blouse stained with sweat. He was struggling under Sandor Clegane’s slashes and thrusts. The other man had opted to go shirtless, and his broad, muscled back flexed with each swing. His sun-darkened skin was riddle with scars. The large man towered over Royce, but the young knight noticed how his opponent favored his right leg and tried to strike from the left. It seemed Sandor had anticipated as much, and Sansa gasped when he veered at just the right moment, letting Albar’s momentum do all the work. Sandor pointed his blunted tourney sword at the knight’s neck, chest heaving and slick with sweat. 

Some claps came from the fences. A few were shouting for more, but Sandor went to grab a towel from a squire nearby. Suddenly Harry shouted beside her.

“What say you to a rematch, Clegane?”

Sansa colored instantly when he saw her. His eyes quickly shifted from her to Harry. _Harry is my betrothed,_ she needed to remind herself, _he will have to get used to seeing me with him now._ He barked a laugh, then threw the towel over his massive shoulder and walked over to them. His scarred face was twisted in a terrible mockery of a smile. “Eager to be lain in the dirt again, boy?”

He had not bothered to put on his tunic and Sansa tried not to stare at the hard ridges of his abdomen. Harry rolled his shoulders at her side, stood straighter. 

“A friendly spar, then?”

Clegane considered him, then said, “You’re a green boy, might be you’d learn a thing or two from a spar.”

“Tomorrow, then, same time. Right now I must take my betrothed riding,” he grinned cockishly at her with his straight white teeth.

“Aye, tend to your lady love, then. That’ll soften you up nice.” With that, he turned and left for the benches.

Sansa took one last look at him before leaving with her husband-to-be. To Harry, she said, “You don’t honestly think you can best him, can you?” 

"Alayne,” he said, scrunching his face, “Your lack of confidence wounds me.”

 _And your inflated ego will see you shamed._ “I just don’t want you to be hurt.”

He chuckled, and gave her a light kiss on the lips. When they were mounted on their horses, hers a grey mare and his a strong bay, they were led out to the outer ward. Alayne tried to look back to where the men were sparring, but all that were left were a few boys cleaning the mess the knights had left behind. Harry spurred his horse into a canter, and Alayne tried to keep up with him down the green pastures. They rode for what seemed like an hour or more, passing by the fenced enclosure where the horses and mules grazed and further out to a dense forest of birchwood trees. The cool air against her face was refreshing and the feel of the mare beneath her empowering. The woods were clean smelling and crisp, any animals scared away by their mounts. They had slowed down in a small clearing, and eventually Harry stopped completely and dismounted.

The handsome young knight came to her and Alayne felt cool and composed when taking his hand to dismount. The two of them let their horses graze as they followed a narrow stream, talking casually about their days and wedding preparations. She listened as he recounted some childhood tales from Ironoaks. Ser Roland and Wallace Waynwood were like brothers to him, and they had taught him everything he knew about knightship and gallantry. Alayne listened more than she spoke, only able to give a few vague details about a false childhood in Gulltown. _Soon, I will be honest. I only hope he will understand why I had to lie all this time._

A small, murky pond made its appearance at the end of the stream and the couple stopped at its bank. Pink lilies floated upon their leathery pads on the surface. Harry suddenly sat in the grass, inviting Alayne to sit with him. She did, close by, feeling his warmth on her side. She took off her gloves and let her hands rest in the soft green blades. Their feet stretched out before them, her boots crossed at the ankles and his pointing outward. He followed her gaze.

“Those boots are doing unimaginable things to me,” he sighed.

She laughed, and suddenly his lips were on her cheek and then her neck. Her head came down to rest on the soft earth, her hair in the dewy grass. His lips found hers and kissed her eagerly, his tongue delving into her mouth. Alayne almost stopped him, but then she remembered. _Here, with him, I am Alayne._ So she let him kiss her, but another kiss came to her mind and she could not help but pretend it was him on her now, his hard lips crushing her mouth, the burned side rough and ridged. Her eyes closed, she sighed into the kiss, and a hand came up to squeeze her breast. She gasped and opened her eyes to make sure it was still Harry and not… _not him,_ she thought, somewhat disappointed. 

Her betrothed looked at her curiously, his hand still on her chest. She nodded at him, mumbling some apology and laid her head back in the grass as he went to her neck. Her heart was beating nervously in her chest. _He is to be your husband, learn to enjoy it,_ she scolded herself. _Pretend, if you must._ She closed her eyes and gave him a delicious sigh. He groaned back into her neck, ground his hips on her thigh and she felt the hardness there. Suddenly his hand was on her skirts, tugging quickly.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she whispered.

He looked down at her, his sandy blonde hair a rough mess around his comely features. “It’s alright, Alayne. You can keep your maidenhead, remember?” His hand slipped up her clenched thighs and over her mound. “Just relax,” he sighed into her neck, “you want me to please you, don’t you?” _I did say that,_ she thought, trying to calm herself. She opened her legs slightly, let his fingers graze over her through her clothes. It felt odd, having someone else touch her there. She could not deny there were pleasing aspects to it at first, but then his hand went into her smallclothes and rubbed at her cunt. _His fingers are too dry,_ she thought, too embarrassed to say anything. It felt rough and rushed.

His hands left her after a few moments and went to tug at his waist belt. The belt was opened, and his hand dug into his breeches. “Alayne, touch me, please,” he begged.

 _Calm down, he is just a man and men have their needs._ She thought back to what Myranda had taught her, thought to do the more innocent of the options presented to her. She rolled on her side so her chest bumped against his, and their lips met again in chaste kisses as she moved her hand down to his breeches, reached in. He let her encircle his hardness, and she pulled him out gently. He gasped. _What in the world am I doing?_ The knight fell on his back in the grass and sighed as Alayne rubbed him slowly, the way Myranda had done to the handle of her hairbrush. She suddenly imagined her hand on him like this. _Stop thinking about her!_

“Faster,” he gasped, grabbing her hand and guiding it up and down nearer to the tip. His head fell back again when she did as he said.

The skin there was smooth and warm, and the hardness was pulsating. Alayne was fascinated by it, growing a little more comfortable. “Do you like it?” 

“Oh, gods, yes,” he gasped, and suddenly his cock jerked and his hand came down to cover the stream of wetness that erupted there. She did not know whether to stop, and just slowed down awkwardly. He pushed her hand away, wiping at himself. 

“Gods, Alayne, that was nice,” he said, almost laughing. “Are you truly a maid?”

“Yes!” She blushed, not knowing whether to be insulted or flattered. 

He chuckled, and gave her another, deep kiss. “Thank you,” he smiled. 

She did not think it appropriate to say he was welcome. 

As they cleaned themselves off in the stream and rode back to the castle grounds, Alayne thought of what the rest of their marriage would entail. He said he would pleasure her, but really he had rushed only to please himself. _Unless… that was supposed to be pleasing to me and I failed at that, too,_ she thought miserably. But that was absurd. She had been able to bring herself to climax before, if only a handful of times. She knew she was capable of it. _But is he?_ she thought distantly. She would need to summon some courage to instruct him in a way that was not insulting to his prowess, and the thought itself was a bit humiliating. 

Deciding to leave those thoughts for another time, she contemplated instead upon the feast that night. The castle would begin the wedding celebrations a full week before the ceremony. Three days was usually customary, but Littlefinger thought a full week would be worth the expenditure for his beloved daughter. There would be more visitors arriving to the castle grounds than leaving, and Alayne needed to prepare herself to greet them. Petyr had given her long scrolls of heraldry to study and she mostly knew them all by sigil if not by face. In the stables, most of the stalls had already been filled to capacity. 

“I will see you this evening, my lady.” Harry kissed her hand, and let Alayne alone to escort herself to her chambers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alayne was crossing the gallery towards the Great Hall when she met Mya on the stair. She had cleaned herself up a bit, wearing a rawhide leather tunic that hugged her lithe body. Her pretty blue eyes were framed by her choppy black hair. 

“I’ve been looking all over for you! What did you do to Myranda?”

Alayne raised her brow at her, and continued on her descent of the stair. “Nothing but reveal some secrets,” she said coyly. 

“The poor girl has been crying in her featherbed for the past two nights. She’s speaking of these crazed plots to embarrass and harm you. What did you tell her?”

“Is she now?” Alayne asked, considering. She suddenly felt reluctant to attend the feast, but knew it was her duty. “Fine, I’ll tell you.” She pulled Mya into a dark corner. “I know about her and Harry, don’t ask me how, I just do. Maybe that first night when she granted him her favor. I don’t know when, but I was jealous, so I told her that I was meeting in secret with Harry and now I suppose she means to see my demise. He’s _my_ betrothed!” she exasperated. 

Mya pulled her nearer to her. “Alayne, don’t be a bitch. You know how much she likes Harry but now he’s to marry you regardless, isn’t that enough? Leave her to her fantasies. _Harry_ is the one to blame here. You must tell her you lied about it.”

She lowered her eyes. “It is not so much a lie anymore…”

“ _What?_ What did you do?”

Alayne widened her eyes at her, not knowing the name for it. A vast array of expressions danced across Mya’s face. Alayne made an obscene hand motion she never thought she would do in her life. The raven-haired girl burst into laughter while she tried to hush her volume. 

“Oh no, Alayne, you must lie to her again, then. She’s a wreck,” she said, wiping the tears of mirth from the corners of her eyes. “Do it again, please. You look like a milkmaid.”

Alayne ignored her and continued down the long stair and into the lobby. She supposed she would try to rectify her friendship with Myranda. The buxom young woman did know her way around the court far better than Alayne, and if she was angry with her then she would not be safe anywhere. _This is her terrain, so I must need raise the white flag before anything happens._ In the Great Hall, the musicians had taken up their flutes and strings to play “In the Old Oaken Town” while appetizers were being served. New and familiar faces stood about with drinks in hand, conversing and exchanging their pleasantries and words of greeting. She spotted Petyr Baelish standing with Harrold and Lady Waynwood, along with two others, a man and a woman. They saw her and waved her over. 

“My lady,” Harry said, “may I have the pleasure of introducing you to my father, Lord Harris, and my mother, Lady Arlette. Mother, father, my betrothed, Alayne.” _He left out the Stone_. Alayne curtsied dutifully, glad she had decided to wear a modest, soft pink gown. 

“The pleasure is all mine,” she said.

“How courteous she is,” Lady Arlette said, and Petyr smiled at her like a proud father would. She had long, dark blonde hair that she had apparently passed along to Harry. Her eyes were brown and round, with crow’s feet on the outside corners. Lord Harris, on the other hand, did not look to be related to Harry at all. He had a large belly that flowed over his belt in his checkered red and white doublet, and his head was completely bald. He looked every inch a proud lord, and the Vale was full of proud lords.

Harrold Hardyng put his hand on the small of her back as they spoke of their journey through the passes. Soon, the main courses were being served and the servants were guiding everyone to take their seats. 

Alayne and her betrothed had a place of honor on the dais, if only for the remaining week until their wedding ceremony. Their long-backed leather chairs were more cushioned than the benches, Alayne noticed. The cooks had served a steaming dish of venison stew and broiled freshwater fish from the rivers and lakes. _Sweetrobin hates the smell of fish._ Her little lord had his usual seat at the center of the dais. Ser Roland Waynwood was in his winged knight uniform, keeping the boy laughing with some story at his side. Sandor Clegane was wearing his sky blue cape as well, standing near the wall behind Sweetrobin and Roland.

“Why don’t you go speak with your cousin? I never see you two together,” Alayne suggested.

“Do you jape? The boy can’t stand the sight of me. He thinks I mean to see him dead.” He took a bite from the meat on his plate.

_The boy may not be wrong._ “You must show him otherwise. Befriend him, he is only a child, he will not harm you.” _He cannot make you fly if we are not in the Eyrie._

He finished chewing, then spoke. “Will you wait one more week before you start with your wifely nagging?” he teased.

Alayne giggled enough to please his ego, but inside she felt hurt. _Nagging? I only made a suggestion._ She watched him for a moment as he stuffed down the food on his platter, reaching for seconds. Across the hall, she spotted Myranda standing beneath a tapestry with a few ladies-in-waiting, giggling as they looked in her direction. Alayne felt her palms grow sweaty. _What is she telling them?_ she excused herself from the table to go speak with her. The other girls dispersed when she arrived. 

“May we put an end to this farce?” Alayne asked.

“I know not what you mean,” Myranda said blankly.

“I was not being truthful, that day at the morning meals,” she lied. “Harry and I never… well, we never made love,” she blurted, and it was not wholly untrue.

Myranda crossed her arms and looked at her apprehensively. “Then why did you say that?”

“I was just jealous,” Alayne admitted, rolling her eyes. “You’re so much older and more experienced than I am, and I cannot compete with _those_.” That got her to smile. “I’m sorry, I know how much you like him.”

“Oh, alright,” she let her arms down and swayed one about Alayne’s waist. “I forgive you, but I do still envy your luck. He is _so_ handsome.” They walked out to the clearing made for dancing in the grand hall. “I saw his father, let’s hope Harry does not inherit that gullet of his. If so he’s all yours.”

The two girls laughed as they danced, and soon enough other men took them in hand for waltzes and quick steps. Alayne danced with the stuttering Wallace Waynwood and then with Albar Royce, Andrew Tollet, and then Ser Byron the handsome. After that song had ended and the next began, Harry inserted himself between her and Byron, stealing her away while the other knight protested. She laughed at that, and Harry swung her about the hall, skirts swaying this way and that. His face nudged her by her ear, over her reddish brown hair. “Shall we leave this place?”

Alayne felt a heat blooming on her chest, and Harry twisted her in the line of sight of Sandor Clegane as he stood guard behind the dais. One gauntleted hand rested on the pommel of his longsword, and the armor on his broad chest bore the falcon-and-moon of House Arryn. She took a while to answer.

“I am so weary from our riding today…” she responded, feigning sadness. He did not push further, to her gratitude, and they danced until the rest of the song played to its end. She excused herself then, and went to take her seat to eat the piece of frosted lemon cake that had been served for dessert. Her mouth watered when she eyed the tasty treat, and she savored the delicious bite she took from her spoon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You haven’t lost your skill with the sword,” she commented from her featherbed.

The large non-knight eyed her from where he leaned back in his usual seat. _Is this usual now?_ She had invited him in her chambers for the third time and he was already in there for more than an hour now. Sansa could have sworn that this time he had expected it. She did not blame him, but she scolded herself for being so reckless, for letting it get to this point, for relishing in the excitement she felt whenever he entered, the way her tummy fluttered and her heart pounded. Enjoying the way he looked at her now as she lay on her belly on the large featherbed, wearing the light blue robe that had belonged to her late aunt. It fit her long-limbed body snuggly. 

“Your boy’s got courage, challenging me,” he grated.

“More like arrogance, I would say,” she played with the coverlet beneath her, “do go easy on him. I shall not like to see him crippled.”

He flexed his shoulder in something like a shrug, cleared his throat. “Won’t make any promises.”

“I order you to spare him,” she teased, “but you don’t have to let him win.”

“Am I taking orders from you, now?” he rasped. His scars twisted in amusement. 

“Will you obey me?” She knew full well the implications of her words, and found that she did not care.

His chest rose and fell with a sigh, and Sansa remembered how the muscles there were slick with sweat in the yard. He wore that same long sleeved mailshirt, the material of which followed the dips and hills of his arms and body. A familiar warmth flooded her then, and she found she had to ask what he meant when he said, “I will.”

“Obey you,” he repeated her words.

“Kiss me,” she said.

Neither of them moved for a long moment. Then, finally, one of his callused hands lazily waved her over. “Come here,” he rasped.

Sansa considered the danger of her initial reaction to those words. _It is wrong, it is so wrong._ Her demons were warring with her in her mind. _If you say it, you are lost,_ but that thought dissipated as quickly as it had arrived. “No,” she heard herself say,

“You come here.” 

There was no way of taking her words back. She stared at him through the shadows of the night, waited for him to say something, deny her or tell to stop behaving like a fool. But he didn’t. He said nothing, and she began to regret her words when he moved to stand.

 _This is wrong,_ some distant voice was saying over and over again as she watched him remove his sword belt. It fell to the floor in a heap, and the tall man had to duck his head beneath the canopy to climb atop her featherbed. The mattress dipped with his weight. Sansa rolled onto her back, waited with her heart in her throat and her body tense with anticipation. Sandor went to his hands and knees like some massive beast, crawled over to her and came to a rest right beside her. One large hand went to her loose hair, pushed it away from her face. 

“It’s different,” he whispered hoarsely.

“What is?” Her voice came out like a squeak.

“The color…” _More like the same,_ Sansa thought, but she wasn’t able to say so before his lips found hers.

He tasted like lemon cakes.

Sansa started giggling, if not from the sensation of tasting the treat on his tongue then from her jittery nerves. “What is it?” he rasped.

“Nothing,” she said, grinning, “Did you have dessert?”

He grunted something that sounded like “Aye,” then went directly back to kissing her. She kissed him back hungrily, one hand sliding up his thick arm to his neck, gripping at his hair the way he had done to her before. His chest rumbled above her, and his lips slanted against hers to delve deeper. Sansa wanted to touch herself. _No,_ she thought with some shame, _I want him to do it._ One of his large arms pillowed her head, and the other was above her but not touching her, clenched in a fist down on her featherbed. She reached one hand to touch him there.

He released her from his kiss, looked down at her and then where their hands touched above her, understanding crossing his scarred features. 

“Command me,” he said, looking at her fervently.

Sansa was at a loss for words, and just stared at him for a long moment considering. “Kiss me,” she repeated, not knowing what else to say, but something different washed across his face this time. 

Something animalistic. 

His hand moved to the lace ties of the robe, pulling and tugging as she watched helplessly, chained by her desire. The featherbed creaked when he moved lower, and she raised herself to her elbows. He gazed at her with hunger as his hand went to the hem of her shift, pulled it over her legs, warm knuckles grazing her thighs. Hard fingers went under one of them, pulling it away from the other and spreading her. She would have protested if her body had not stolen her voice from her. Instead it screamed to be touched and kissed.

The warrior moved his weight between her legs, and she felt the scarred corner of his lips on her thigh, his teeth grazing the soft skin, sucking and licking his way higher. Sansa was panting now, chest heaving with each breath. _This is wrong,_ she thought one last time before his warm breath ghosted over her smallclothes, over her cunt. His hand came around her navel to pull her smallclothes up by the lace trimming, tightening them against her skin in a way that rubbed her nicely, outlining the shape of her lips. He sighed and she felt more than heard it when he did. Then his lips came down on her over the fabric.

She gasped at the sensation, the wetness of his mouth and her longing soaking her smallclothes through. 

“Command me again,” he rasped.

Sansa was sweating with want, gasping and desperate to have his lips on her again. “Kiss me,” she moaned, leaning back on her featherbed and closing her eyes. _This way it only feels like a dream, it’s not real._ But her white lies did not do her any good.

His hand went down from the trim of her smallclothes and pinched at the cloth over her wetness, tugging them to the side. _It’s real,_ she thought, not knowing how he would feel to find her auburn curls there. She shut her eyes tighter, waiting. 

“Look at me,” she heard him say.

She slowly opened her blue eyes and found his grey ones staring back. His straight, black hair tickled her thigh on one side. After making sure she was looking, he used two thick fingers to spread her lips apart, leaving him ample room to slide his tongue over her sensitive nub. Sansa could not help but fall back as the pleasure took over. He kissed and licked and tongued, stopping occasionally to whisper nonsense words to her as her thighs trembled beneath him. Words like “Is this the kiss you wanted?” and “Does it feel good?” and, once, “Little bird,” to which she had no choice but to sigh and gasp her approval. He played with her soft nub, moving his tongue roughly over it until she felt her pleasure coming on. Her hand moved of its own accord to grip his hair, her thigh grazing his scars and stubble. He tongued her vigorously for a moment longer before her peak pooled through her, pulsating from the point under his mouth. She let go of him, and his lips went to suck and nip at her apex as she let the pleasure ride its course.

The young woman just laid there, her reddish-brown hair plastered to her brow in sweat. Sandor released her, pulling down her chemise just enough to cover her. He moved above her on his elbows, looking at her with something akin to wonder. A callused hand came up to move the hair from her brow, wipe at a tear from her eye that had come with the force of her pleasure. Sansa could not help herself – she pulled him to her by his collar, kissed him deeply, tasting lemon cakes mixed with herself on his tongue now. She could not believe herself, could hardly believe this was real and not another dream she was having. _Sandor Clegane, the Hound, kissing me in my featherbed._ She wanted to laugh at the absurdity.

Their kisses softened, and when she looked at him she could see him more clearly. _Dawn,_ she realized. She looked to her window to see the lighter blue on the horizon. A sudden and very rational terror of being caught struck her. “How long have you been here?” she whispered.

“Longer than my shift,” he replied, voice low. He looked around at her chambers, the furniture, the cushioned chair, then at her naked legs. “I should go.”

Sansa did not argue with him, though she wished he would stay till morning. He rolled off the featherbed and picked up his swordbelt, fastening it around his waist as if he was just getting dressed. Unbidden, an image of his naked, broad back came to her, and she wondered briefly whether his lower half was as scarred from battle as the top. He turned to leave, and she called out to him at the door. 

“Good night,” she said.

He looked at the window, then back to her, and his scars twisted in something like a smile. The door closed, and Sansa did not think she would be able to sleep for the few hours that remained until morning.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Sexual Assault

Septon Meribald’s lined and windburnt face was looking at Petyr Baelish with both surprise and intrigue. Alayne sat in an old rickety chair that squeaked with any sudden movement. She tried to remain still so as not draw any more unwanted attention to herself as was already being had. The two men discussed what was to be done about the validity of her maidenhead, and she was infinitely ashamed that such matters would even be brought to question. _It is the only way to annul my marriage,_ she reminded herself, trying to be calm. The parlor attached to the east wing of the Sept was small and unadorned. Dust motes floated in the light that shown through from the morning sun, and the room smelt of old parchment and old men.

“I must admit, my lord, I have traveled the Riverlands for nigh forty years and conducted a multitude of holy services. But, it has been quite some time since I have had to verify a young maid’s maidenhood.” He wiggled his bushy eyebrows.

Petyr furrowed his slim brows at the old man. “Never mind your experience, I need only your signature here,” he procured a scroll that Alayne supposed confirmed that her maidenhead was intact. “Do this, and I am in your debt, good Septon.”

“Without conducting the procedure? Why that would be fraudulent. Besides, I can neither read nor write so I know not what is truly written there.” He squinted his eyes at the parchment.

“Very well,” Petyr sighed, looking at Alayne as if to say, _I tried._ “We’ll have a septa read you the details and then perform whatever procedures need be performed to have this charade over with.” Littlefinger often struggled to hide his distaste for the faith of the Seven. _Mostly because holy men have some sense of morality and are thus more difficult to bribe._ “Alayne, sweetling, go fetch us a literate septa if you can find one.”

She stood to do as she was told. On the main floor of the Sept, she saw a brother of the Quiet Isle was sweeping the marble floors of the dais and a few people were at their prayers at the feet of the altars. Two septas stood beside the northern wall, discussing a religious tapestry of the maiden that hung there. Alayne walked over to them.

“Pardon me, septas. Would either of you be willing to read a letter for the septon? I would do it myself but he requires a third party.”

The two young women looked at each other. One of them stepped forward, a girl with a freckled nose and green eyes. “I will accompany you, Lady Alayne.”

Their footsteps echoed as they walked back to the parlor. “What’s your name?” Alayne asked.

“Genna, m’lady.”

Petyr looked relieved to see her back so soon. Genna said her courtesies and went over to the Septon Meribald. He handed her the letter and they all listened.

“Under the sight of the Seven-faced God, it has been judged that the maidenhead of one Sansa of House Stark,” the girl and Meribald looked at her then, and Littlefinger nodded that she go on. “A-and niece of Petyr of House Baelish, Lord of Harrenhall, Lord Paramount of the Trident, and Lord Protector of the Eyrie and Vale of Arryn, remains in tact, and it is by holy decree that her previous marriage to Tyrion of House Lannister be consequently annulled due to a lack of the required consummation and the prolonged unknown whereabouts and state of health of her spouse. So has it been judged by the Gods and so may it be upheld.”

After the girl had finished, Septon Meribald stared at her as if he were only just recognizing her, though she had never met him before her time in the Gates of the Moon. Genna, too, was staring wide-eyed at the company. People were slowly beginning to learn the truth about her identity, but Petyr had promised her the big reveal would occur on her wedding day. She looked to him for some response.

“You understand this must be kept a secret for six more days, at least until the wedding ceremony,” he looked sternly at Genna, “I know how you septas love to talk.” 

An idea came to her then. “Might it be possible that a Septa conduct the procedure?”

“If it were to make you more comfortable, mi’lady,” the Septon said, I suppose it would work just fine, although I would need to remain to oversee it is conducted honestly.” He paused for a moment. “I must warn you, it is common that a woman’s maidenhead may be ruptured due to strenuous work or other means. Although it may be true the marriage was never consummated there would be no way to prove such a thing then. ”

Her palms felt a bit sweaty. _What if, last night…_ She dispelled the thought quickly before an embarrassing blush overtook her. “I would like to go through it with either way, please.” _It is my only option._

The Septon smiled in a way that made her tummy churn. “Will you be willing to help us, Genna? I will direct you.”

“Of course, Septon,” the girl said overly eager. Her freckles turned a soft shade of pink.

When he bid her to follow, Sansa began to feel nervous. If she had somehow managed to rupture her maidenhead everything would have been for naught, and they would need to reconsider all their plans and cancel the wedding. The Septon led her to a bench in one corner of the dusty room and instructed her to sit facing the wall. She felt Littlefinger staring at her from a few paces behind. _He cannot see from there,_ she hoped, a sickening feeling coming over her. There were some knocking noises from where Meribald dug through a chest of tools and objects. Genna stood over her, looking down at her shyly. She gave her an awkward smile. _Be gentle, Septa._ She almost giggled at the silliness of the situation. _Or is it my nerves?_

Meribald came to face her and handed Genna a pair of wooden tongs. Now she could not help but flush. “It is only to help get a better look,” he reassured when he saw the look on her face, but it did nothing to calm her nerves. “Lean back now and lift your skirts. You need not remove your smallclothes all the way.”

Sansa summoned some courage from the recesses of her spirit and resigned herself to get it over with as quickly as possible. Littlefinger’s eyes were nearly boring holes into the back of her head, she knew. She dared not look back.

She made a face when the tongs touched her nether lips clumsily. Meribald was directing the poor girl desperately and soon they were both on their knees and examining her woman’s place with comical intensity. “Is there a layer of skin there? Over there? My sight is failing me these days.” Sansa almost burst out laughing if it meant she would not end up kicking them both in their heads. “Uh, y-yes. Yes, I think.” Genna did not sound sure.

A loud clap sounded from behind her. “It is done! Release my niece, now. Come sign this document, Septon, we don’t have all day.”

Sansa gathered herself while the Septon scribbled his mark in the appropriate location. _It’s done. Lannister no longer._ It was freeing, but only for a few more days. _Then I am married off again._

“I suppose we are to still call you Alayne, m’lady?” Genna asked from above her.

“Until the wedding, at least,” she replied, “May I be excused?” The question was mostly directed to Littlefinger.

The Septon spoke before Littlefinger could answer. “My lady, I am sure I need not remind you that my signature of this document is not a ticket to do as you please. The Seven still uphold that young maidens stay pure until the bedding. Believe me, your husband will be thankful for it.”

Something in his words irked her. “Of course, Septon. Thank you,” she said, eager to be rid of their company. Petyr Baelish rolled up the parchment and followed her out of the cramped room. 

“He is a stubborn beggar, that one,” he said by her side.

They walked out to the steps of the Sept. A few clouds floated in the great blue sky but the morning sun shown brightly nevertheless. The birch trees in the yard had yellowed with the changing of the season, and many children were out playing in the golden leaves that littered the grass. Petyr and Sansa crossed into the courtyard, where he suddenly stopped her with a hand on her arm. He smiled at her when she looked at him, confused.

“That was quite the image, back there,” he said in a low voice, “You with your feet in the air and your skirts about your hips.”

She felt nauseated, but attempted a coy smile. “I knew you would like that.” It was not wholly untrue.

“Did you, now?” His pointy little beard wiggled as he spoke. “Join me in my solar, daughter. I want you to pour my wine while I entertain the Lords Graffton and Belmore.”

“Forgive me, father, but I’m to watch my betrothed spar in the yard at noon. He has challenged the Hound to a match to impress me.”

“Foolish boy, but he is brave. Alas,” he sighed, “Though I do enjoy how you bend and sway with the pitcher I mustn’t steal you from your husband-to-be.” He smiled devilishly. “Will you come later, then? Before the feast.”

“As you say, father.”

He gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. “I look forward to it.”

That sent a chill through her, and she felt a bit nervous when he walked away form her and into the castle halls. She stared after him, his narrow, straight back covered in his checkered brown and black doublet. _Will he truly be so bold?_ she worried, not knowing what to expect when she was to meet him later. It frightened her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the inner ward, some young squires were playing and fighting with blunted tourney swords. On the opposite wall from her she noticed the sky blue cape of the winged guard and the sandy blonde hair of the Maid of Tarth. Sansa made her way over to greet her. 

“Good afternoon, my lady,” the woman-knight nodded, “I heard Ser Harrold will be sparring with Clegane. Will you be watching?”

“Of course I will,” she replied. “Will you join me?”

The two women walked out to the stables in the outer ward near where the older men and knights were now practicing. She could not see her betrothed nor Sandor Clegane, but she knew they would be arriving soon enough. Sansa was surprised to see Ser Mychel Redford there sparring with Ser Owen. _I thought the cheater would never show his face here again._ A few benches were lined around the coarse field. Sansa took a seat with a proper view. She offered Brienne a seat to her side, and the large woman obliged.

“There is word you were in the Sept this morning speaking with Meribald.”

Sansa was not surprised that word had spread so quickly. _Those septas cannot be trusted to hold in their gossip._ “Any word of my identity?”

“No, fortunately, though some have noted the difference in your hair color. You look more like your mother this way. The resemblance is uncanny.” The deep scars in the woman’s cheeks elongated with her frown. “So is it true, what they say? About your maidenhead.”

“It is,” Sansa said. “Tyrion Lannister was kind to me, although that is hard to believe for most, I’m sure.” Sansa remembered that day in the throne room, when Joffrey sought to punish her for Robb’s conquests in the north. It was Tyrion who had put a stop to the ordeal before… _before it got worse._ She remembered how Ser Meryn had tore at her dress, and her relief when the Hound had given her his white cloak to cover her nakedness right after.

“I wonder whether he knows how his kindness has freed you now.”

_Only temporarily. Mayhaps I was freer before the annulment._ “I’m sure word has reached him somewhere throughout Westeros by now, the way these people speak.” She said a silent prayer for the dwarf, wherever he was now. She prayed that he was safe, at the very least.

Suddenly Sandor’s squire came into view, walking with a couple of other boys his age. The boy did not look more than three and ten, and had a mop of light brown hair and hazel eyes. They went to pull out tourney swords and guards for the men. Sandor followed soon after, wearing a dark leather jerkin in place of his guard’s armor. When she realized he was walking in her direction her heart started to flutter with nervousness. _Be courteous and natural, there is no reason he shouldn’t be seen speaking with you._ Brienne stood next to her. “Clegane.”

He stopped a few feet away, collecting his equipment from the squire. The little boy was dwarfed next to him. “Maid of Tarth, Lady Alayne,” he barely glanced at her. He considered Brienne, then said, “We’ve yet to see your skill with the sword.”

“I’ve no time for sparring. My duties require I guard the Lady Alayne at all times.”

“I pity the bugger who tries something with the two of us at her side.” They spoke of her as though she were not even there. “Come on then, grab a sword,” he rasped.

“You must be japing.” It was Harry who spoke from behind Sansa. She stood immediately to greet him. “It’s enough that we let her joust and wear that armor. A woman’s place is on the stands, cheering her lover on. Isn’t that right, sweetness?” The dimples showed on his cheeks when he grinned down at her and he gave her a shallow kiss on the lips. Sansa could almost feel Sandor’s gaze on her skin when Harry’s lips met hers.

“I much prefer her by my side protecting me like she did from the Mad Mouse,” Sansa said, loudly enough for all to hear. “I don’t recall you were there at the time.” She did not mean to embarrass her betrothed, but the way he spoke of Brienne made her bristle.

Harry’s smile wavered a bit. “You know I regret that I wasn’t every passing day, for I would have cut his heart out and served it to you on a platter.”

All three of them stared at him with amusement. He did not seem to notice. Sandor was the first to speak.

“Let’s get this over with, _Ser_ ,” he grated. Sansa knew how much he hated knights and all their pomp. _And Ser Harrold Hardyng has plenty of it,_ she thought with some distaste. 

Harry also wore a leather jerkin, but where Sandor’s was a plain dark brown and showed signs of wear, his was new and stained a dark red color that was very becoming against his blond features. The handsome knight was taller than most men, but he still stood about a foot shorter than Sandor, and though he was lean with muscle he did not quite reach the other man’s breadth and stance. Without wasting another moment, their blunted swords and shields were raised and a call was made from the stands.

Her betrothed initiated the first thrusts, and Sandor parried each one with ease. Each swipe was met with blade or shield. The scarred man barely seemed to provide any thrusts of his own, and merely defended his way around the field unenthused. There was a slight but noticeable limp in his left leg, but that did nothing to slow the seasoned warrior down. _He’s wearing Harry out,_ Sansa knew. _This will make for a boring fight._ She could not help but feel a little disappointed. 

“Do you mean to fight or dance?” Harry called with exasperation. Some laughing could be heard from the benches.

“You’re not ready for a fight,” Sandor rasped.

Harry laughed confidently at that, but Sansa knew that hidden beneath that layer of arrogance was a desperate need to prove himself. His thrusts became visibly rougher and faster, but Sandor countered them all the same, leaving the knight with little venues for striking. 

“Don’t flare your elbows so much when you strike,” Sandor suggested as he parried another thrust as though he were swatting away a bug. “Keep the force in your shoulder and back.” 

Harry the Heir took a few steps back to recover himself, spitting in the dirt. He used the sleeve of his jerkin to wipe at the sweat on his brow. Sandor merely leaned on his tourney sword and waited, dusting off his shield as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Sansa smiled a little at that.

Suddenly Harry leapt at him as if to take him unawares, but Sandor’s sword was up in a flash of steel, and he pushed his weight into the blade on the parry, swiping away the sword. The force of the unexpected block sent Harry reeling back, huffing with fatigue and frustration. Mychel Redfort called out to him near the stables. 

“Go for the leg! The bad leg!”

Sansa saw how Harry’s eyes scanned Clegane’s lower body now. “Won’t do you any good. I’ll expect it now. Focus on keeping your balance.”

It was apparent that Sandor’s constant advises and suggestions were irritating the handsome young knight to no end. Instead of heeding his words, he got sloppier and angrier. The non-knight still would not attack on his own, only moving his shield and sword enough to absorb Harry’s thrusts. _He is being merciful, as I asked him to,_ she thought. It made her tummy flutter to know he was thinking of her now.

“At this rate the fight will never end,” Brienne sighed next to her. After a short while of the same dull tactics, Sansa almost wanted Sandor to just knock him down and let it end already. Harry kept taking his chances on the bad leg until Sandor’s annoyance became apparent as well. He gave the knight a hard thrust with the butt of his sword. It hit him square in the jaw, nearly sending him in the dirt. _That will likely leave a bruise,_ she thought worriedly. 

The young man touched at some blood that welled on his lip. “You cut me!” he yelled.

“Calm down, it’s just a scratch,” Redfort called. 

“It’s fair,” said one of the older men overseeing the match. Sansa recognized him to be the castle blacksmith, a muscled man who looked no older than fifty and covered in soot and grime. “Carry on,” he shouted through missing teeth. All the other knights and men at arms had stopped their practice to watch them.

_Now he is really angry_. But Clegane was angry, too. She knew it would not be long now before the fight ended.

Harry launched himself at his opponent with a roar, but the larger man simply stepped to the side and let him nearly send himself in the dirt. When the young man turned to try again, he was met with the steel of Clegane’s sword on his neck. 

“Had enough?” he growled.

Before anyone knew it, Harrold had sent a hard kick into Sandor’s leg. He grunted in pain when he hit the dirt. Sansa ran over to the fence and clutched at the railing, struggling to see if he was alright. Harry stood over him with a crazed grin on his face, breathing heavily and pointing his blunted sword at Clegane’s chest. The men and boys were all yelling obscenities and other foul things while Harry started to say something that she could not quite make out. With the point of the sword on his chest, Sandor just lay there in the dirt glaring at Harry as though we wanted to tear him to pieces, his scars twisted in fury. 

Then the blonde knight was beneath him.

One strong leg had shot out to catch her betrothed by the ankle, and Harry was face down in the dirt with one arm held twisted behind his back by Clegane. Swords and shield abandoned, the two struggled in the dust and sand while spectators struggled to pull them apart from each other. When they finally got Clegane to release him and move to the other end of the field, it took all her strength to resist going to him now. He clutched at his leg near the groin where he had been kicked. Sansa grabbed at a young squire that was scrambling to get over the fence. “You there,” she said, seizing his skinny arm. “Tell Clegane he must go directly to the infirmary and have the Elder Brother tend to that leg. Tell him Lady Alayne said so.”

Dirt and filth marred Harry’s perfect face. He looked well enough, though he was clutching and flexing his shoulder where Sandor had apprehended him. Sansa made her way through the throng of people crowding him on one of the benches.

“Are you well?” She touched his elbow.

“Ah! Yes, fine, just don’t touch me.” He examined the scrapes on his fine doublet. 

Sansa colored at his outburst. “Don’t yell at me, please.”

“I’m sorry, alright?” he said, exasperated, “I’m tired. Be a good wife and fetch me a water skin, will you?”

Some of the men and boys stared at her expectantly. _I am Sansa of House Stark, not some serving wench._ She looked to his squire who had not even offered to do the chore. “You heard the man, fetch him his water.” The boy shot to his feet and went off running towards the stables. Sansa left the side of her husband-to-be without another word, finding Brienne waiting for her near the entrance to the inner ward. “Come,” she told the tall woman. “I must needs meet Petyr before the feast and I want you to be there when I do. But first,” she added, “I want to stop by the infirmary.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was exactly where she expected him to be, sitting on a cot in the long ward with the Elder Brother and Maester Colemen seated beside him. What she did not expect was to see him deprived of his leather boots and roughspun breeches as he was now. A thin white bed sheet was all there was to cover the nakedness of his groin. One leg, the injured one, was outstretched near the side where the Elder Brother sat. It was covered with coarse, dark hair and thick as a tree trunk with muscle. No hair grew on the mangled scar on his inner thigh where the Elder was rubbing him now. It seemed indecent that she should watch but she promised herself she would not stay long.

“Is it bad?” she asked when she arrived. Colemen was surprised at her presence, but the Elder hardly seemed to notice anything out of place. 

“He’ll be just fine in a few moments,” the healer said, lighting some incense and mumbling a prayer. Then his thick, red hand went to rub Sandor’s inner thigh again and she saw how the scarred side of his mouth twitched in pain. The scar looked like it had been deep.

“Is there something you wanted, my lady?” he asked through gritted teeth.

Sansa felt Maester Coleman’s and Brienne’s gazes on her, waiting for her answer. _Why on earth did I think it appropriate to come here? How foolish!_

“I-I came to say that I forbid you from ever fighting or even sparring with my betrothed ever again,” she said with feigned fury. “You hurt him badly and there will be consequences! But since I don’t want to distract the Elder Brother at his work I will leave you for now. Good day, Elder, Maester.” 

She turned heel, grabbing Brienne by the vambrance and pulling her along. _That was so immeasurably stupid,_ she scolded herself. She knew how dangerous it would be if any one were to notice even a small semblance of her affection for the reformed Lannister dog. With the way rumors spread in the keep, Petyr would realize instantly his mistake of letting the man guard her door at night. _He’ll take him away from me. No, I will not make that mistake again._

“Do you sincerely mean to punish him, my lady?” Brienne asked as they walked through the gallery to the Lord Protector’s solar.

“Yes,” she lied, “although I haven’t thought of his punishment yet.”

The warrior was quiet for a while as they ascended the stair. Then she spoke again. “Might I ask why you need me by your side to visit Baelish?”

Sansa knew it was not the appropriate location to delve into details, so she tried to be as vague as possible. “I don’t trust him. And that’s all I’m able to say for now. The tapestries talk,” she said, repeating a colloquialism she’d heard Mya say before. “He’s going to ask you to leave us alone for a short while, but I want you to knock on the door not long after with some excuse for me to leave urgently. I’m needed with Sweetrobin, mayhaps. Agreed?”

Brienne’s face grew stern. “I don’t like the idea of you in there alone.”

“Don’t worry,” she said when they reached the door, “Just do as I say.” She pushed open the heavy oaken door by its bronze handle. The hinges creaked to announce her entrance. Petyr Baelish was seated in his high-backed leather chair with Lyn Corbray lounging directly opposite in his winged guard uniform. The men turned when she and Brienne said their greetings. 

“The blushing bride,” said Lyn, twisting in his seat. “I heard the question of your maidenhead has finally been laid to rest.”

“Now, now, Corbray, I won’t have you dishonor my daughter as such. I’ll have you leave my sight - I have matters to discuss with Alayne, alone,” Petyr looked to Brienne as well. 

But Brienne looked to Sansa instead. The young woman nodded her head.

When they were alone, Petyr asked her to pour his wine. She went dutifully to the tankard that was set on a nearby table and turned a clean goblet over, feeling his eyes on her the entire time. The Arbor Gold spilled into the cup, but when she lifted it to bring to his desk she was in his embrace instead.

He held her tight from behind and his arousal was apparent where it rubbed against her hip. Nausea overtook her. She helplessly stood where he held her, his face in her hair, sniffing. 

“You smell like sweat,” he commented, “and your hands are shaking.” Her nerves were creating ripples in the wine. _Entrance him_ , she tried to remind herself, but she was finding it difficult as his hand slid down her waist. 

“It is excitement, father.” She hated to call him that. “All the time I was watching my betrothed fight I was thinking of you.” _That’s enough, don’t say anything further or else he’ll know. He always knows._

“And I of you, sweetling,” he purred in her neck. Then his lips were there, kissing her. She did not know what else to do but drink the wine she had poured for him, tasting the metallic texture as it went down her throat. His hand went to one of her breasts and stayed there. 

“How was the fight?” he asked between kisses.

“The Hound beat him, of course.” Thinking of Sandor Clegane brought her some courage. When she was a young girl, she often wished to have some fraction of the ferocity of the Hound. She set the goblet down on the table, bending perilously into Littlefinger’s groin as she did so. She knew it would entice him.

He turned her roughly by her arms, causing her to gasp, but that sound was swallowed by his mouth as it kissed hers hungrily. _There’s something wrong,_ she started to panic. Littlefinger pushed her towards the desk, swiping away at the papers and objects there. Sansa’s hands were at his chest, ready to push him or pull him. She did neither, too afraid to react.

“You proved to the Septon you’re a maid for true,” he said, pulling at her skirts, “Now show me.” He looked down where he held up bunches of skirts in his fists. Sansa’s heart was pounding in her ears, hands shaking on his doublet. She moved them to the desk behind her, afraid he would notice. _Brienne, where are you?_ she thought desperately. His slender hands were beneath her skirts now, grabbing at the waist of her smallclothes, and he would have ripped them off of her.

He would have, but for the pounding on the door.

“What is it?” he yelled.

“Lady Alayne!” Brienne’s muffled voice was booming. “The Lord Robert has need of you immediately!”

“The boy can wait,” Littlefinger called, aggravated. Sansa stayed deathly still.

“It’s important she come now! He’s soiled himself in a shaking fit and won’t rest until the Lady Alayne is there!”

The whiskered man closed his eyes for a moment, and then his hands left her thighs to straighten his collar. “Go then, if it's such an emergency. This isn’t the first time the brat has soiled himself.” 

Sansa attempted to smile sweetly at him, but the man looked to be distracted by other things on his mind. The door creaked when she closed it behind her, and she let out a shaky breath. Brienne grabbed her by the shoulders and it made her flinch. Concern was writ across her mangled features.

“What did he do?”

“Not now,” she said, pushing past her to go to her chambers. Brienne hurried to keep up with her. _He almost… oh, gods, what have I done?_ Her skirts swayed on her way across the halls and corridors. The guard’s footsteps were always right beside her, trailing her. When she finally reached her own door she quickly barred it after Brienne. Then forgot her completely as she paced to her jewelry box.

“My lady, tell me what’s going on,” but Sansa ignored her. _Where is it?_ She dug frantically through her Aunt Lysa’s jewels, cords of gold and silver tangled in heavy gems and rubies and sapphires embedded in earrings and rings. Her hands still shook when she pulled it out from the deepest recesses of the box. The silvered web was thin and delicate, glimmering softly, the stones a deep purple. One of them was missing. Ser Dontos had once told her it was magic, but she knew the truth to it now. 

Sansa set the hairnet to the side and dug through the rest of the jewelry, taking out every ring she owned and lining them up on the dresser. She brought the hairnet close to each one, measuring. _This will have to do._ She picked up the selected piece, a ring that was thin and silver with three place settings for two diamonds and a larger ruby between them. “My dagger,” she called to Brienne, “it’s in my nightstand.”

The woman retrieved the knife and handed it over with the hilt facing her. Sansa took it without saying a word, went to the window with the ring. Brienne stood over her, watching her. The point of the knife slipped between the stone and the place setting. She delicately pulled two of the metallic claws away and the ruby slipped out effortlessly. Then she set to work on the amethysts of her hairnet.

“Sansa, sit down for a moment. I can tell you are unwell. Whatever he did to you-”

“Just give me a moment,” she breathed impatiently. The purple stone fell away much the same way the ruby had. It stained her fingers a little when she placed it on the setting of the ring, using her fingernails to push back the metal to secure it. The beautiful piece fit perfectly on her ring finger. Her heart hammered against her ribs. _This will do._

“It’s pretty,” she heard the woman say from behind her. “But what’s it for?”

“Not what,” she heard herself say. “Who.”

There was a prolonged silence behind her, until she felt a heavy hand settle on her shoulder. Brienne asked her a string of questions, “What has happened,” “What did he do to you,” and “What do you mean to do with that ring,” the last of which she still could not answer at the moment. “Use it,” she had said, but she knew neither when nor how. In fact, the longer she stared at the stone that sat upon her hand, the more unsure she became. _He will recognize it instantly. He will know._ In her earlier fit of rage and fear she intended to use it this very night, but now she saw that was nigh impossible. The symptoms of the Strangler were obvious to detect, and with her past history attending purple weddings she was an obvious culprit. _No, this is too reckless. Too insane._ She pulled the ring from her finger, deposited it in her jewelry box and shut the lid. 

“Please ask Maddy to fetch me a bath,” she told Brienne. She wanted to wash the grime from her legs, from where he had touched her. The guard left to do as she was bid, and soon after a warm bath was drawn in her chambers. The water tickled her skin. It felt calming to her body, but her mind was a frenzy of crazed notions and plots that would not leave her be. She closed her eyes, but all she saw was the ring on her hand, the way it reflected the candlelight. Her hand lifted from the water, the tip of the forefinger and thumb still stained. She cleaned them raw beneath the surface.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The feast had been a dull affair that night. The musicians played all the usual songs and she danced with all the usual people. Harry had spent nearly the entire night complaining about his aching shoulder and recounting tales of false heroism in the yard to his friends, and every time, Sansa noticed, he conveniently left out the detail of his malicious kick to Sandor’s wounded leg. It took all of her restraint to keep from interrupting him when he spoke with Ser Albar and Ser Roland and adding that important detail where it was missing.

She wondered whether Sandor would be fit to stand guard at her chambers that night, but her questions were soon answered when she noticed the familiar shadows from behind the door. Her tummy fluttered at the sight, and she went quickly to the door to invite him in, all shame long abandoned.

The scarred man was facing the wrong direction when she opened the door. She grinned up at his smug expression. It felt very refreshing after the long day she had. It made her forget. 

“You shouldn’t be standing,” she whispered, reaching out to grab his thick wrist, “Come and sit.”

He came unresisting. When he walked Sansa noticed the slight limp was still there, but it was not any worse than it had always been. “How is your leg?”

“Better,” he rasped. Instead of sitting down in the floral chair he went to her dresser, picked up the dagger. “What in seven hells is this?” The falcon and moon of House Arryn glinted in the moonlight.

“Brienne gave it to me, some days ago. For my protection. After the Mad Mouse.” 

He barked a laugh. “The thought of the little bird piercing some poor fool with this,” he rolled the dagger in his hand. “Did she at least show you how to wield it?”

“Somewhat.” She took the dagger in hand, gripped it the way the straw-haired woman had showed her, pointing up. Her other hand went up to grip his mailed shoulder, and she made a stabbing motion. “She said I had to thrust up, like so.”

“Aye,” he said, grasping the hand that wielded the weapon. “You’re not strong enough to pierce a man’s rib cage, but you can get under it easily enough. Over here,” he brought her empty hand down past his chest, then pressed it against where the last bone of his rib cage would be. He felt warm and inviting. Sansa abandoned the dagger, pulled at the mailshirt with both hands but he caught her thin wrists in his grip. She looked up at him curiously.

“There’s a rumor going around,” he grated.

Her eyes fell to his chest, unable to look at him. “It’s true,” she said, and, anticipating what he would say next she added, “I know I should have told you but I just did not think it was appropriate. It was too forward. I didn’t want to suggest anything-”

The grip on her wrists tightened. “After what I did last night-”

“Don’t. Please,” she begged, wriggling out of his grasp. “I wanted it, the things you did…” she admitted. “And I needed to have my marriage annulled. It was the only way.”

“All this time, I though that fucking Imp-” but she stopped him, grasped him by the upper arms.

“He didn’t. He was kind to me.” 

“If not raping you is some kindness then call me a fucking Septon.” Sansa laughed at that, after the morning she had with the Septon Meribald and Genna investigating between her legs. 

“It was more than just that. Tyrion protected me in what small ways he could. Much as you did.”

“Then I hate him a little less for it,” he rumbled. Sansa did not know what had occurred between the two of them the night of Blackwater, but she resigned herself to ask those questions another time. As well as the details of what had occurred with Littlefinger in his solar. _There’s no reason he should know yet. He may do something rash._ All she wanted to do this night was to lose herself in his warm embrace and kiss him until the morning came, but she sensed his reluctance now that he knew she was a maiden. _He thinks he is taking advantage of me,_ she realized, but that was not at all close to the truth.

“I feel I must apologize on behalf of my betrothed. His behavior was atrocious and wholly ungallant,” she tried. “Please, sit.” 

He listened to her then, to her satisfaction, removing his sword belt and taking his seat on the cushioned, flowery chair. “You ordered that I go easy. I did, and all it got me was time with the Elder Brother and a good scolding.”

She smiled as she walked over to him. “I did promise a punishment.” He straightened when she made to sit on his lap, his hands quickly going to her waist. They were pushing her away from his lap and further down near his knee, as though she were some child. “You’re resisting me,” she noted aloud, “Because of my maidenhead.”

“You don’t know what you want,” he rasped, but she pushed back against him. 

“Don't presume to know how I feel," she said, sliding closer. "I will make it simple for you." Her arms came up around his thick neck, and her soft lips met his. She planted shallow kisses there for a while until he slowly began to respond in kind. The feel of his tongue against hers sent a warm current through her core, remembering how it felt between her legs. The thought almost brought a moan to her lips. One of his rough hands came up to cradle her jaw, pushing her gently away from their kiss. “Are you sure?” he said in a low voice. 

She said nothing, only kissed him deeply once more, and then she was flying. _No, not flying,_ she realized. He had scooped her up and deposited her on the featherbed. She giggled when she bounced in the softness and quickly rolled over to make room for him. It took him a moment to kick off his boots before he lay beside her, his massive weight dipping the mattress. She threw her arm around his chest where he lay on his back and went right back to kissing him, softly at first, then more and more deeply. Soon both of them were gasping for air, one of his hands around her waist and the other in her hair, holding her to him. She loved the way his hand felt in her hair.

Sansa had not bothered to wear her Aunt’s robe that night. _He’s already seen more of me than any man has,_ she thought, happy to discard the idea altogether. She wondered if he noticed the way her breasts pressed against the side of his chest now with only the thin layer of her shift to cover them. The thought made her strangely excited.

When she broke their kiss his eyes remained closed, the unmarred side of his face closer to her. She kissed his cheek, smelling the musky scent of leather and, distantly, the stables. A thought came to her. 

“Have you ridden your destrier?” She knew how no one else could tame the wild beast.

“Every evening before supper,” he grated, eyes still closed. Sansa was glad to hear that. One of her hands went to his thick neck and she continued her kisses on his cheek, then his stubbly jaw, the pulse on his neck. The grip on the small of her waist was tight, the fabric of her chemise bunching in his fist. He did not seem to be responding other than that.

Sansa found that increasingly frustrating. _Is he still doubting this?_ she thought, incredulous.

Her hand came down from his neck and slid over the hard fabric of the chainmail covering his chest and abdomen, fingers curling around the hem near his waist. She pulled.

He opened his eyes when her hand touched him beneath the mailshirt, outlining the hard ridges of his tummy, the warm hills of his chest. She had never felt anything so strong beneath the palm of her hand. The hair on his long torso tickled her skin. Settled on one elbow, she watched him as she explored him like this, enjoying the look on his face. One of curiosity and amazement. She had never known the Hound's eyes to be so calm.

He abruptly released her and brought his hands up behind his head. The position spread his broad back even more. “Enjoying yourself?” he asked.

“Aren’t you?” she asked, somewhat unsure.

“Very much,” he sighed. “Too much.” 

She did not know how to interpret that, but she considered it a good sign. She watched as her hand slid lower on his abdomen, down where the hair grew thickest. His arousal was apparent, and it made her heart flutter in her rib cage. It was almost as if her hand was not her own, the way it slipped under the waist of his breeches. A throbbing heat flooded between her legs when she gripped his thick cock. Her fingers barely wrapped all the way around him. She looked at his face for reassurance, still grasping his warmth. He stared at her with lidded eyes, lips parted and breathing deeply, hands still behind his neck.

Sansa removed her hand and sat up in her featherbed. Throwing all caution to the wind she went to unbuckle his belt and untie the laces of his breeches. _I still have my maidenhead, it makes no difference,_ she tried to rationalize when she pulled out his entire length.

What Myranda said was true.

It surely was not fair to compare, but she could hardly help herself. He had twice the girth, and it took two palms to envelope his length. The warrior made no move to instruct her, only watched as she slowly slid one hand up and down his shaft, like testing the waters. Sansa could hardly believe herself, and the terror of their being caught in this perilous position only made the warmth between her legs even worse. 

Sandor Clegane was sighing in a way that made her want to touch herself. _I had my pleasure last night,_ she reminded herself. _It’s my turn to give him his._ It thrilled her to think she might make this wall of a man come to completion. “You can make noise, if you want,” she told him. He huffed a breathy laugh that sent a deep ache to her core. A mad thought came to her, of pleasuring him the other way Myranda had told about, the way he had done to her. Except she did not know how.

 _You do the same motions with your mouth until they burst,_ is what the girl had said. But Sansa failed to see how that would work. She looked back to his scarred face, regarding him. He just stared at her as she pumped away at his length. Then she bent to take him in her mouth.

A callused hand shot out to grab her by the shoulder. “You don’t have to,” he rasped breathlessly, “I’m almost there.”

“I want to,” she replied, and her lips went to the head of his cock before he could resist. He sucked in a breath, coming up on his elbows, and Sansa could have sworn she heard him groan in pleasure. She kissed and licked at the salty head delicately, the way he had done to her cunt. Suddenly there was a grip on her ankle, and she found that she was being pulled by her foot closer to him so that her bottom was well within in his reach. Her face was still near his lap, watching him as he dragged her foot across his chest, spreading her legs. 

“Go on, then.” His voice was the sound of steel on stone, and his hand was dragging her smallclothes down over her bottom and off her feet. Sansa went back to stroking and kissing him, and then she felt his strong hand squeeze one cheek alluringly. She could not help but moan with his cock in her mouth.

“Suck,” he said hoarsely. He slid an index finger to her damp opening, wetting it there before going to circle her clit. Her mind was abuzz with the sensation, wishing his finger would go to her opening again but also wishing it would not stop playing with her clit. She remembered what he had instructed then and took more of him into her mouth, sucking and stroking in tandem. His finger faltered, but when he went faster her rhythm on his cock faltered. She gagged in a very unladylike manner a few times, but she blamed it on his distracting her. She was making a mess in his lap, her spit going down to her palm where it stroked him under her lips. She worked at him for some time longer, and soon her jaw was beginning to ache until, finally, she felt his cock throb once, twice, warm juices shooting into her mouth. 

She jerked her head back and he cursed when his hand came down to his lap far too late. Sansa wiped at her mouth, surprised at what had happened. 

“Fuck,” he panted. The sticky white liquid was in his lap and on her tongue and both of their hands. “I should have fucking stopped you.”

Sansa rushed to retrieve a handkerchief from her dresser and damped it with a bit of water from her basin, wiping at her hand. She brought it over to him and he took it and wiped at his lap.

“Well, at least it did not dirty your clothes,” she said. He was still visibly aroused, she was surprised to see. He grabbed himself and wiped, the sight very much alluring to her.

Sandor noticed her watching him. “Your turn,” he said, throwing the handkerchief on the floor. He laid back down on his back. 

She was confused at that. “You’ve already done enough,” she replied.

“Come here,” he growled, pulling her around. He grabbed her behind the knee, bringing one leg over his waist. For one mad instant she thought he meant to push her down onto his lap, but then his hands went to her bottom and pulled her _forward_ instead of backward. She quickly went up on her knees so as not to crush his face, grabbing onto the headboard for support. “Come down, little bird,” he said in a low voice, “You won’t hurt me.”

Warm hands went up to her hips under her chemise, pulling her down until her cunt met his mouth. She sighed, closing her eyes and leaning her forehead on the oaken headboard. She grabbed a hold her shift as his tongue went to work on her immediately, moving as it had the night before, circling her clit roughly. She rode out the sensations on his hungry mouth, and gasped when his tongue went _inside_ of her for an instant. She made to move away, but his grip on her was like a vice, pushing her down even more. Helpless, she let his tongue explore her deeply, delving in and out of her and then going back to her clit, where she found her peak almost instantly. The heat poured out to her legs and up to her heart and chest, feeling just as good if not better than she had the night before.

She collapsed in a panting mess sideways on the featherbed, one calf still across his chest. Sandor wiped at his mouth with one hand, then looked at her. He seemed very sleepy. 

“I wish you could stay,” her voice sounded weary to her own ears.

“Is that all?” he asked.

Sansa looked at him for a long moment unspeaking, then turned to stare up at her canopy, a strong desire to cry overwhelming her. _Of course I wish more than that,_ she thought, but to say it would only make it more real. _I want you as my husband, to give myself to you every night._ But such a thing was impossible. They both knew it, and yet here they were, giving in to this impossible desire. In less than one week she would be married to another man and made to share the bed of someone she did not love. The word surprised her – love. _Could that be what this is?_ But she said nothing. Nothing when he removed her leg from his chest, nothing when the featherbed creaked as he moved to gather himself, tying his breeches and boots back on. Nothing when the swordbelt was back around his waist and nothing when he was gone without another word.

Sansa said nothing when the tears finally fell.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Dubious Consent

“Alayne, I made this for you.”

The boy held in his hand a scroll of parchment, shyly pointing it at her from where he sat in his cushioned chair. A smile came to her face when she took it, curious to what she might find there. On the parchment was a scribbling made of ink and dye, the likeness of the Winged Knight and a dark-haired woman by his side. The knight had long brown hair. _He drew us,_ she realized, touched. 

“Sweetrobin, this is beautiful.” She went around the cyvasse table to give her little lord a hug and a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, my lord. I did not know you had such skill with the quill.”

“Ser Roland helped me to do it,” he said, grinning up at the young knight that stood by his side. 

“I told you she would like it,” he said to the boy.

“When Maester Coleman makes mistakes in his letters I get to keep the parchments to draw on. Look,” he pointed to a large blue hole behind the two figures in the picture that Sansa had taken to be the sky, “It’s the moon door!”

“Oh! Are we in the Eyrie, then?”

“Yes,” then he frowned, “When can we go back? I miss it there. My chambers were bigger and Ser Lothor would make all my toys fly whenever I wanted. I want to go back!”

“Sweetrobin,” she soothed, “I’ve explained to you before the Eyrie is frozen for the winter and will be for a few more years. When we go back you’ll be strong and tall and you can throw your toys from the moondoor all by yourself.”

“And not only toys,” Ser Roland added with a smirk. Sansa glared at him with a look that said, _Don’t encourage him._ “What? I was talking about Gertha’s bean broth from the midday meals.”

“Yes! I want to make it fly! And Gertha, too!”

Sansa gave the boy a stern look. “Sweetrobin you cannot make people fly just because you don’t like their cooking. Come now,” she went back to her chair, “Let’s play a game.”

He straightened in his chair and began to place his pieces into their proper positions with his delicate little hands. Sansa rolled the parchment and left it on the side of the table, focusing on the game at hand but not really paying as much attention as she should have. Her body was weary for lack of sleep and a dull ache in her head now plagued her since the moment she had risen that morning. _It is worth it,_ some voice deep down was saying. A headache was a small price to pay for the pleasure to be had deep in the night. She only wished to be allowed more time to sleep in the mornings. A bride-to-be had more duties than she had previously imagined. The cooks had taken her meal preferences and the gardeners planned to make large arrangements of orchids and lilies to decorate the walls and pillars of the Sept and Great Hall. Her bouquet would be an assemblage of pale pink peonies with thistles of lavender. Everything would be arranged according to her liking.

Everything except her husband.

Later, after she had let Sweetrobin have the day with cyvasse and she retreated to her chambers, she waited. The dressmakers were scheduled to arrive for her first fitting. Myranda Royce was laying on her featherbed playing with an old embroidery of a mockingbird, chatting about some jape she heard in the common hall. She wore a plain grey woolen dress, the slippers on her small feet hanging off the edge of the featherbed.

“So you were telling it true, before,” the rosy-cheeked girl said. “You are a maiden. Curious that you needed a document to prove as much. You could have just had the dirtied sheet hung after the bedding.”

“That is what the commoners do,” Sansa replied, irked by how many people had mentioned the whole farce to her already.

“Alayne, you _are_ a bastard,” she responded

“The _Lord Protector’s_ bastard,” she added pointedly.

Myranda rolled her eyes at that. “I’ll be having a new dress, as well,” the young woman changed the subject, “My father is having it made for me. It’ll be a deep bronze, the color of sunset, and the bodice will be of black Myrish silk. You never know who may be watching.” She swiped a loose curl from her face, looked at Sansa with her large brown eyes.

“I cannot wait to see it,” she replied from where she sat on the cushioned chair. It smelled like leather and steel. Her elbow leaned on the armrest, a hand rubbing at her temple.

“Rose water,” Myranda said suddenly. Sansa looked at her questioningly. “For the dark bags under your eyes. I’ll not have my friend looking so deathly so near to her wedding day.”

“I see,” Sansa muttered. “I haven’t been sleeping much, what with the nerves.”

“Is the bride getting cold feet?” Myranda’s eyes seemed to light up.

Just then a loud knock sounded from the door and Maddy let herself in, followed by the dressmakers. Myrtle still had her hair fixed in a long braid, but there were loose strands all about her narrow face and shifting eyes. There was a roll of measuring tape about her wrist and a pincushion in her hand. The old seamstress named Taena wobbled in after her, followed by the young girl who was carrying the massive gown in her arms. Sansa stood to greet them while Maddy relieved the girl of the weight in her arms.

“Lay it on the featherbed,” Myrtle commanded, then to Sansa, “Alright, my lady, please undress.” Her words were quick and so was Sansa as she loosened her woolen gown at the bodice and pulled the garment up and over her head, not caring that she be seen in her smallclothes in front of the women. Maddy took it from her dutifully.

Myranda touched the sleeves where they lay near to her. “It is so fine,” she cooed, “though I don’t think I would have chosen these colors for the autumn season. Green is much more becoming on you.”

“I wanted something different,” Sansa said, almost ignoring her as she gazed down at the gown. Her hands slid down the silky grey fabric of the train, adoring how it shined like silver in the afternoon light. The hem was decorated with ivory lace and small, sparkling gemstones in patterns that made it seem as though it had been dipped in sugar. The bodice had ties of cloth-of-silver just as Myrtle had said. She was suddenly eager to try it on.

“Ah, ah, let us help you with that.” Myrtle grimaced as she rushed to her side when she made to lift the gown. She lifted the hem delicately and called Maddy to help with the other side. Sansa was lost in a sea of heavy fabric and murmuring voices until she resurfaced with the gown suited to her body, Maddy and Myrtle tugging at the skirts and tulle meticulously near her feet. The seamstress, Taena, stood then and went right to work pinching and poking her with pins around the bodice and waistline, asking her whether she could breath properly and whether she had made her water before trying on the gown. It was slightly loose around her waist and would need to be adjusted before the wedding, she knew. Myranda helped to tie the sleeves into place with silver ribbons. Then, after all the hustle about her subsided all five women stared at her expectantly as she moved to the floor length mirror, the ivory train trailing behind her.

Her breath caught in her throat. It was as though she were not looking at herself at all, but of a picture in one of Sweetrobin’s fairytales come to life. _It is more than beautiful,_ she wanted to say, but she could hardly speak above her overwhelming satisfaction. She turned her back to the mirror, spreading the skirt and details. Myrtle was smiling with conceit. 

“Thank you!” Sansa said breathlessly.

“You will be the envy of every maid in the Vale,” Myranda said, staring wide eyed at her. Maddy was showering her with compliments as well, smoothing out the train on the floor.

“The maiden cloak will take more time,” Myrtle commented, “But I assure you it will be sown to perfection.”

“I have no doubt,” Sansa sighed, still swaying this way and that in her reflection. It was with great reluctance that she removed the gown to be taken away for the necessary adjustments. She had a girlish desire to wear it for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening and night, to dance in the Great Hall while all looked upon her in amazement. _That will soon come,_ she thought, and when she was left alone in her chambers her excitement slowly turned to dismay. But she tried to push the dark thoughts from her mind. _You must be as strong as your lady mother._ She would have approved of this match, she knew. It was a strategic match meant to be in her favor. _But that hinges on whether Sweetrobin lives long enough to produce an heir,_ and that thought left her with dread.

There was no outcome that saw to it that everyone she loved would be happy and her status secured. No matter what, some one would come to pay a price.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Your hair seems different,” Harry noted at the feast later that night. 

He held her in his arms while they waltzed to the slow tunes of “Autumn’s Harvest.” He wore a quartered doublet that hugged his narrow waist and broad back, a silver brooch of a pair of wings fastened near his chest. His comely features were looking down at her with admiration. 

“Do you like it?” she asked. She had instructed Maddy to fix half of the mostly auburn waves in a clip while the rest simply flowed down her back. The gown she chose was one of those Littlefinger gifted to her during the week of the tourney, the navy blue of the skirts swaying around Harry’s legs.

“Very much,” he said, touching a strand from behind her back. _Please, not my hair,_ she inwardly begged. His fingers there reminded her of how much she enjoyed another man’s hands in her hair, the way his fingers grazed her scalp. She placed her head on his chest, and there were some coos and whistles from those who danced nearby and watched from their seats. Sansa’s gaze traveled past many of them – to Mya, where she stood speaking with Lothor Brune, then Ser Edmund Breakstone nearby her and Lymond Lynderly behind him. There were the Lords Declarant up on the dais, the noble Lady Anya sitting near Lord Belmore as they spoke to one another. Bronze Yohn had yet to arrive to the Gates, although he had been invited to a seat of honor for the wedding. The Lord Protector eyed her from whence he sat comfortably near the center of the long dining table, showing her a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. Sweetrobin was to his right, looking out to the dancers forlornly. 

And, just behind him, the burned face of Sandor Clegane.

Her heart swelled when her eyes met his. He had been watching her already, and did not bother to avert his gaze when she noticed. Suddenly the simple act of laying her head upon her betrothed’s chest felt very strange. _Very strange, and very wrong,_ something whispered in her.

“May we take a walk?” she asked him abruptly, weary of swaying in one place for too long. Harry agreed, and led her by hand towards the large doors of the Great Hall. She did not look back. 

“Where would you like to go?” _Home_ , she imagined she might have said. But instead she said, “Anywhere quiet, really. I have a bit of a headache and just want to be away from the music for a bit.”

They walked for a few moments in the wide corridor, firelight flickering from the torches in the wall sconces along the way. A draft wafted through an open window and their footsteps echoed against the marble.

“Have you ever been to the Tower of the Guard?” 

“I live here, if you do not recall,” she smiled.

“I thought you might like a tour of my quarters. The Winged Guard are held in very high esteem and have the luxuries to match.” He arched a brow at her, inviting.

“Only if you promise to conduct yourself in a knightly manner,” she replied, letting him take her hand to guide her there. The dimples appeared on his cheeks when he grinned. Sansa could not help but find that to be very charming.

The Tower of the Guard, although named a tower, was wider than it was tall, but its long and winding stone halls were sizeable enough. They were empty but for some chambermaids replacing the bedding in one room and a couple of men at arms walking in the opposite direction. Large paintings hung from the walls, portraits of formidable knights and old Arryn lords of yore. There were a few that showed the mountainous landscape of the Vale in the summer, the rivers and waterfalls cascading from their heights.

When they made the next left turn, there were eight oaken doors lined down the hall, four on either side of her. Upon each hung a steel shield with two swords fixed in a cross, the falcon-and-moon of House Arryn emblazoned in the metal work. They reflected in the firelight, giving them an orange glow. Harry stopped in front of one of them.

“Here I am,” he said, looking at her the way he did when they were alone in the woods. 

Sansa turned to look at the other doors. “Do you know who stays in each one?”

Harry squinted in the dark as he leaned on the door, and then pointed at the others. “Roland, Lyn, Brienne, Clegane,” then to the other side, “Albar, me, Brune, and Eustace.”

Sansa took special note of that.

The inside of Harry’s chamber was extraordinarily large and richly furnished. There was even a separate parlor where rested a cushioned divan opposite a grand fireplace, above which hung the red and white checkered coat of arms of the House Hardyng. The wide canopy held a featherbed fit for a king. Sandor had been right when he said his rooms were far better than hers. She wondered whether his were quite the same, whether the three dogs of House Clegane hung anywhere in his quarters. She could not recall him bearing his house sigil since he had arrived to the Gates of the Moon.

“It’s truly magnificent,” she commented, placing one hand on the back of an ornately carved chair.

Harry flopped down on the featherbed, propped himself up on an elbow and lifted one knee in a position that she guessed she was supposed to find alluring. It only made her laugh.

“You’ve probably never seen anything like it, have you?”

 _Oh right,_ she remembered, _he still thinks I am baseborn._ “Mayhap not _exactly_ like it,” she strode over to the bed, ran a hand over the fine coverlet. 

“Is this to be our marriage bed?”

“I haven’t been told otherwise,” he said, patting the side of the bed expectantly.

Sansa raised a brow at him. “Knightly, remember?”

He chuckled handsomely. “Right,” he slid off the bed, “a drink, then, to our marriage.” 

She followed him to the parlor, taking a seat on the comfortable divan. He followed soon after, holding two goblets filled halfway with Dornish red. 

“To our marriage,” he said, holding the goblet out to her.

“And to our love,” Sansa added for good measure. Their cups clinked and both drank deeply, the sour drink burning her throat on the way down. When she finished it and looked up from the goblet, she found him regarding her curiously.

“Would you call this love?” he asked.

 _Why not,_ she thought distantly, _I will have to get used to the thought._ “Someday, mayhaps,” she teased. “Ever since I was a little girl I had always dreamed of a husband like you. Fair of face, tall of stature, strong and noble. A gallant knight. How could I not love you?”

“How, indeed,” he grinned, showing her his straight white teeth.

Sansa held out her goblet to be filled again, a tight feeling forming in her chest. The alcohol seemed to sooth that. He poured into it from the bottle and added more for himself as well. She took a sip.

“Am I all you had imagined?” she toyed, curious to see whether he would mention her bastard station again.

He didn’t. “You’re nothing like I imagined. You’re better.” The arm closest to her reached across the divan, touched at her hair. She forced herself not to move.

“You once said I was only 'comely enough.'” she asked.

He made a face. “I was too nervous to say then, but one would think you were nobility, to look at you. Your eyes, your lips.” He drew a thumb down her jawline, traced her lower lip. She turned from it to drink from her goblet.

“I mustn’t stay here too late,” she said abruptly, “You know how these maids talk. As soon as the Septon thinks I did not go to my marriage bed pure, he’ll beat with me with his walking stick.”

Harry made no argument, lending her a hand as she stood from the divan. When they walked back to her chambers in the Tower of the Maiden, Sansa felt herself a little light headed. _I should not have drank the sour red so quickly,_ she scolded herself. They walked on, stopping randomly in alcoves to share secret kisses and laughing all the way. They reached the final stairway. Then, for a sobering instant she thought they might meet Sandor in front of her chamber doors. _No, it must still be early yet._ Her heart beat unevenly for a moment longer before she saw the hall was blissfully empty. Harry took her all the way to the door.

“Might I have a tour of your chambers in return?”

Sansa gave him a look. “Only for a moment. It is very homely and comfortable if I may so,” she said as she opened the heavy door, “not like yours filled with cumbersome furnishings and excessities.”

“Excessities?” he laughed, “Is that a new word?”

She laughed hard at her own misspoken mistake, holding on to his arm for balance. _I am drunk, how ladylike._ Maddy had already laid out her chemise and underlings for when she would make ready for bed. Sansa went to light the lantern on her dresser. Harry took the liberty of walking around the small room, his hands crossed behind his back and eyes roving all around. Then he made to sit in the chair. _His_ chair. 

“Wait! Don’t,” Sansa went over to him, thinking quickly for some excuse. “There was some wine spilt there earlier. You would dirty your doublet.”

“I see,” he said, thankfully not bothering to feel for any dampness. 

“You look impressed.” 

He smiled, wrapped his hands around her waist. “Homely.” His soft lips met hers, kissing her gently but with a hunger that lay just below the surface. She kissed him, too, wondering whether he felt that same hunger coming from her, unable to tell for herself. A wave of guilt washed over her, guilt that had no place being there. _He is to be my husband and only him,_ she kept trying to tell herself. _Then what is this you are feeling?_ said another voice, the two warring in her mind. She broke the kiss, smiling up at him sweetly. 

“It is late,” she whispered, glancing distractedly at the door. 

“Yes, yes, I know,” he exasperated, then remembered. “Five more days.” He squeezed her. She smiled, allowed him another kiss before he left her on her own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Long after, into the late hours of the night, Sansa sat in the cushioned chair. She had not bothered to change into her chemise, only sat with her gown still tight around her waist and chest, her slender fingers rubbing at her temple. It felt as though she was in some liminal stage between drunkenness and sobriety, too aware and yet not truly aware enough. _Why ever do I drink that foul beverage?_

Those shadows were at her door again. She stared at them for a long moment from where she sat, contemplating the warmth that spread through her chest, her thighs. Just from looking at those two shadows. For a brief moment the image of Harry’s handsome face came to mind, and she searched for that familiar guilt she had felt earlier, imagining his blue eyes, aquiline nose, the dimples when he smiled.

_How could I not love you?_

It did not come.

Sandor had become impatient by the time she opened the door. She saw it in the way he closed it behind himself, barring it roughly, then felt it when he took her in his arms and pushed her to the featherbed. She went unresisting, his mouth crushing hers, rough hands cradling her face. She tasted sour red on her tongue. The featherbed creaked when she fell on top of it, gasping breathlessly, his mouth going to her naked neck, teeth grazing the skin there, his hands above her holding up his weight. Sansa could barely breath, her bodice was so tight. Her hands left his chest to quickly unlace the ties that constricted her and soon one of his warm hands was there too, cupping and pushing one breast as soon as it was exposed. She gasped when he pinched and tugged at her nipple, and again when his mouth went there. One of her hands went to the back of his head, slipping through his black hair. She closed her eyes.

His mouth left the nipple he had been ravaging, the skin red and sore on her breast. The wetness made it feel cold.

“Harry the Heir can go fuck himself,” he rasped at her naked chest, then at her, “Cancel the damn wedding.”

Sansa stared at him wordlessly through lidded eyes. Her hands went to pull him up by his jerkin, pull his lips to hers again. But he stopped her with a hand around her wrist. “Say it.”

“I cannot,” she said, twisting beneath his weight. “You know I cannot.” Her voice sounded petulant to her own ears.

“Then this bloody needs to stop,” he grated.

 _Does he truly mean to use his body as leverage?_ She almost laughed at that. “The question remains,” her head felt a little dizzy when she went up on her elbows, “can you?” She looked down at her exposed nipple. His gaze followed hers. A callused fist gripped at the coverlet, and his scars twisted in frustration, dipping his head to her shoulder.

Her hand went up to cup his cheek. The bad side. “Just lay with me. Please,” she whispered near the stub of his ear. “While we still can.”

His hand found her breast again, covering it completely in his grasp. “Sansa,” he rasped hoarsely into her neck. Her head tipped back, his words warm on her clavicle. Then his hand was there, pushing her down onto the featherbed. “When you were a girl in King’s Landing,” he ventured in a low voice, “you were scared, and they fucking beat you. Those knights with their _sers_ ,” he spat. “I wanted to protect you, but instead I scared you, too.”

“You don’t scare me any longer,” she said, even as his hand moved to her neck. “You couldn’t.”

A thumb traced the pulse on her neck. “I could kill you,” he said suddenly, “Or him, if you married him.”

Her heart hammered in her ribcage. “You’ve been drinking,” she realized. The sour red she tasted. _It was on his tongue, not mine._

“Aye, might be I have.”

That broke her heart. She tried to move, but he pushed her back down on the featherbed. Though he’d been drinking, in his eyes she saw a clarity, a staunch determination. “The night of the Blackwater,” he continued, “Even then I wanted you.” His hand slid back down to her breast, massaged. “Now you’re a woman,” she gasped when he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, tugging, “And I want you more.”

“I want you, too,” she gasped, a wetness on her cheek. “I dreamed of you.”

“What did you dream, little bird,” he asked, his mouth going back to suck on her already sore breast.

Sansa drew in a breath, tried to speak between gasps of both pain and pleasure, her hand going to his massive shoulder. 

“I dreamed of you. Naked. Ah-In my bed,” she managed. She could not say more, for delicacy’s sake. _He’s sucking on your nipple,_ a voice said, _What delicacy?_

“Is that what you want,” he rasped, going back to her neck. 

“Yes,” she said, almost exasperated. Then she sighed when he went to the hem of her navy blue skirt, pulling it up over one thigh. The hand that was at her breast now pulled down her small clothes, not all the way, but just enough. His cruel lips found hers again just as he slipped his hand over the wetness that pooled there, a finger probing deliciously at her entrance. She opened her mouth for him, letting the taste of wine invade her senses, moving her thigh to the side. He teased her mercilessly, his finger slippery where it circled at her apex, between the lips. Sansa moaned when he suddenly pushed one thick digit inside of her. “Wait, wait,” she tried to say between heavy breaths, but he growled into her neck, moving his hand faster and faster, an indecent wet sound coming from where he worked her. Her chest was heaving, her completion coming on quickly. His mouth was near her ear, teeth grazing the earlobe. “Sing, little bird,” he said lowly, her peak abruptly throbbing in his hand, warming her to her toes. 

It took her a moment to regain herself, coming to her senses when his middle finger slipped out of her. She looked at him with wide eyes. “You… you might have taken my maidenhead,” she said worriedly. 

“It makes no difference,” he rasped, rolling off of her. She stared at his broad back when he walked over to the basin, wiping at his hand with a washcloth.

 _Of course it makes a difference,_ she panicked. _How could it not?_

“Was there blood?” she asked, ruffling past her skirts to examine herself. “On your hand, was there blood?”

“Too dark to tell,” he grated. 

Her tummy dropped. _It’s my own fault. I invited him in, let him do these things to me._ He must have noticed the distress on her face, for then he said, “Don’t worry your pretty little head, girl. You have the Septon’s signature, remember?”

“Yes, but,” she hesitated. “Won’t it be different?”

“For him, you mean.”

She could not bring herself to look at his scarred features. _Harry won’t notice, he couldn’t._ The headache suddenly returned with full force. _Even then we will have said our vows and consummated our marriage, there would be no turning back._ While she sat in silence with her thoughts Sandor had seated himself in the chair. _His_ chair. He eyed her now as she stood to change into her nightgown, letting the gown fall in a pile on the floor, too weary to care. 

“Still with a head full of songs,” he said when she did not speak. “Tell me, would it have been different had I not kissed you? Had you not had my cock in your mouth?”

Color rose to her cheeks. “Don’t sound so hateful.”

He barked a laugh. “Hateful, is it? I have a right to it. You put me in my place, treat me like your dog, throwing me scraps beneath the table. And the worst part,” he chuckled darkly, “The worst part is I keep coming back for more.”

“I’ve given you more than I’ve ever given anyone,” she said, sounding hurt.

“It’s not enough,” he rasped.

“Don’t you think I want to give you more?” She went to him, her hands out in surrender. “I am _highborn_. My marriage will always be one of politics and not love. The songs have been long forgotten. Sandor,” she pleaded, taking his hand, “All I ask is that you hold true to your promise and stay with me. Defend me, guide me, love me.” She looked him in the eye when she said it. “That must be enough for you. And it will have to be enough for me.” Sansa moved onto his lap, his hand still in hers. His face had softened some. 

A delicate hand went up to cup his cheek. “I am always thinking of home. Of Winterfell. I feel as though I am that girl again when I see you, when I’m with you.” A rough hand went to clasp hers where it rested on his cheek. 

“I’ll be there to see you find your home again,” he grated, somewhat sadly.

 _That is more than I ever could have wished._ Smiling at the thought, she leaned in to kiss his lips. _That is all we may dare to have._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The kitchens were slowly emptying themselves out after the midday meals, the scent of baked bread and cheese still wafting through the halls. There was a storeroom near the inner bailey where the seating arrangements for the ceremony were kept, situated upon an easel. Names of great and minor houses alike were pinned to the board by little pointy flags that bore their distinct sigils. They had been kind enough to pin the Titan’s Head onto her name at the center of the dais. _Even though a bastard has no sigil,_ she thought. Harry was to her left, as was customary, with Sweetrobin to his side and Littlefinger near hers. The others that were seated on the dais were the Lords Declarant, of course, their being esteemed guests. Her gaze traveled to where Bronze Yohn Royce’s was name pinned at the end of the table. _He will certainly be entertained by the evening’s proceedings._

The Brotherhood of the Winged guard was to be stationed behind the dais. It was certainly a proper place for all to see them and admire them. _And note their nobility._ It was a good way to separate them from the rest of the guests, and with Lothor and Corbray on the guard they would be the first to act in defense of Littlefinger should it come down to that, likely by taking the young knights hostage. Petyr had his own players on the guard, but so did she. Sansa lifted the little flag with the three dogs in the yellow of autumn grass and moved it closer to her, pushing Corbray further away from Littlefinger.

Some footsteps sounded behind her. She turned, and was surprised to see Sandor Clegane himself standing in the doorway of the storeroom. He wore the shining armor of the Winged Guard, the falcon-and-moon of Arryn melded into his plackart and the sky blue cloak draped across his back. She smiled at him as he regarded her. “What a pleasant surprise,” she said, turning back to the board. “Is it not early yet for you to be up?”

His footsteps sounded closer from behind her. “Not anymore,” he rasped.

She was confused at that, turning to study him. “What do you mean?”

Grey eyes looked into hers, and his voice was dispassionate when he spoke. 

“I switched shifts with Brienne.”

Her chest felt tight at his words. There was a warmth there that threatened tears. She turned back to all the little names on the board, all the meaningless sigils and houses and places. _Do not cry, you stupid girl. What ever did you expect?_ But she remembered his promise to her, that he would see her find Winterfell again. Now she was unsure. A finger lifted to where she had positioned him on the dais.

“I placed you here, by my side,” she said in a thick voice. “Are you?”

She felt a hand on her arm, turning her to him. He gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Whatever happens, I am by your side,” he rasped, something fierce in his tone, “the whole of Westeros can burn to ashes,” her eyes welled, “if only you-” but he did not finish his words before something overcame him and his lips crushed hers, her chest getting tighter and tighter until she thought her heart might burst. She turned from his harsh kiss. 

“Then _why?_ ” she cried, searching his face for something she might understand, finding nothing but cold resolve. 

His hands became tight on her arms. “Little bird,” he said, his voice raw, “Nothing will come of this but danger and ruin. I said I would protect you, even if it means I must do so from a distance.”

Her heart was beating hard. _Is this the end, then? Is this all?_

“You said yourself,” he rasped, “it will have to be enough.”


	11. Chapter 11

“You sent him away.” Sansa fought to restrain the anger in her voice.

Petyr regarded her through the floor length mirror. The tailor that tended to him now fidgeted with the fabric of the new doublet as if it were stuck to his hands, pretending not to overhear them. “Leave us,” the Lord Protector said then, and the old man promptly exited the solar.

He smoothed out the handsome garment over his narrow waist, straightening the mockingbird collar. “You should be preparing for the ceremony,” he said, not bothering to turn, “not wasting your time with meaningless endeavors.”

“You gave me your word the Elder Brother would remain until the day I wed. That we would see whether his services-” 

“And I did keep my word, did I not?” He faced her, reached out his hands. “Today is the day you are to be wed, and I have henceforth judged his presence here an unworthy expenditure. Maester Coleman has proved himself a suitable caretaker,” he said, rubbing the sides of her arms. It was meant to be soothing, but instead it reminded Sansa of when those hands were at her skirts. She shuddered involuntarily. 

Swallowing, she continued. “I had hoped you would see how much he has improved and judge otherwise.” _I had hoped you would do it for your love for me if not for Sweetrobin._ She had run to his solar as soon as she heard word of the Brother’s departure, dragging herself away from her handmaidens as they begged her to stay to let them finish with her hair. It was only halfway done now, and she was wearing a roughspun blue gown that was anything but flattering. They had been gossiping about the latest news and rumors, mentioning in passing the fact that the brothers of the Quiet Isle had left them.

“I have noticed some improvement,” he said skeptically. Then he smiled a devilish smile. “In fact he looks to be cured outright.” A narrow eyebrow lifted.

She knew what he meant to say with that one raised eyebrow, the very thought of which made her feel ill. 

“Have you given any thought,” she tried, “to what may happen to you should Sweetrobin die?”

“Is that what concerns you so? The thought that I would leave you all alone, go back to that accursed Harrenhall? Not a chance, sweetling.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. “My place is here, by your side. Lady Waynwood is now in my debt, and the Lords Belmore and Graffton and the rest know how my granaries run full to last a winter. Or feed an army, or stand a siege. Whichever you prefer.” His eyes seemed to glimmer. “The raised prices have already begun to show profits. Soon the mighty Lords of the Vale will need to pass through me in order to simply feed themselves, and Corbray will turn any parlay to my benefit. No, my dear, I am not going anywhere.”

Sansa was still confused at that. “Do you mean to follow me to Winterfell, then?”

A silky hand touched her cheek. “I mean to do better than follow you,” he said, but before she could inquire further he called out to his guard at the door. “Corbray! Escort my daughter to her chambers else she be late to her own wedding ceremony.”

Lyn Corbray spoke not a word when he entered the solar, dressed in the silver armor of the Winged Guard. His shoulder-length brown hair was combed back and tied at the nape. He stared at the two of them with a bored expression. She gave Littlefinger one last look, but he had already retreated to his scrolls and letters. Corbray awaited her with an extended elbow.

She took it, feeling uneasy as they walked back to her chambers. _He means to do more?_ He couldn’t. She would not allow it, whatever it was. He had taken her this far, secured for her a worthy match, guaranteed her what might well be one of the last untried armies in Westeros to use at her will, a rarity in this war-ravaged land. _That is only if the Vale’s bannermen and northmen will rally to your cause,_ a doubtful voice said. Petyr had once promised her they would be happy to swear their swords to her once they glimpsed the Stark emblem on her maidencloak. _Littlefinger also betrayed your father. What makes you think he does not mean to trap you as well?_

Corbray pulled her back from her thoughts. “My lady looks unwell.”

“I am just nervous, ser.”

He glanced down at her, a dark look in his eyes. “You lied.”

“Pardon me?”

“About the boy,” he said, a strange smile going to his face. “The ‘pimply sickness,’ did you call it? Clever. I saw him at the washbasins the other day. Not a scar to be seen.”

Her tummy twisted at his words. Some venom was in her, then. “Forgive me my attempt to save a child from a predator.”

He laughed heartily at that as some servants passed them by. He spoke under his breath. “I’d take care to watch that tongue of yours if I were you.”

A group of serving maids was giving her an odd look to see her away from her wedding preparations. She simply smiled. “Are you threatening me, ser?”

“That was just a suggestion,” he said indifferently. “If you ever attempt to interfere with my affairs again, or speak ill of my name in the presence of others, I’ll personally see to it you are hanged for treason on the steps of Baelor. _That_ was a threat.”

It sent a chill through her, she granted him that. “I see. So he told you, or you pieced the puzzle together yourself. It makes no matter. Save your empty threats and take care that you keep away from the children,” she said boldly, spotting her chamber door not far off, “or I will see to it that the Lord’s Declarant learn of your catspawing for Littlefinger. I leave your fate up to them.” She smiled sweetly at him, one of his eyes twitching back at her. For an instant she feared he meant to grab her, but then some men at arms appeared around the bend. 

He leaned in close. “And for that catspawing it is your _father_ who pays me in boys and coin, or did you forget? Perhaps you should like to run and tell the Lord’s Declarant about him as well?”

“I am well enough here, ser. You may leave.” 

She let go of his vambrance and escorted herself the rest of the way to her chambers. The skin on her hand crawled where she had touched him, and she had a sudden strong urge to wash them clean. When she entered her chambers she ignored the sighs of relief of Maddy and the handmaidens and went straight for the washbasin. They had all worn their best gowns and were already done up while Sansa was not yet even near ready. The room was in disarray. Her gown had been laid out on her featherbed, jewelry was strewn across the vanity, and what felt like endless pairs of slippers littered the floor. The maiden cloak lay packaged on the bedside table, waiting to be opened at the very last minute. She went to sit in the cushioned chair as different pairs of hands reached out to her, tending to her face, her hair. 

There was a scent of leather and steel, and her chest suddenly felt tight.

She had seen him only a few more times up until this day, but they hardly spoke more than their pleasantries in the presence of others. He rode the black destrier in the mornings now and sparred with the knights and men at arms after the midday meals. The man kept to his duty, guarding her when it was necessary and leaving her be when it was not. In all the madness that had been the past few days Sansa prayed for a moment alone with him, if just to speak with him, but the moment did not come. And now the day had arrived in which she was to be married to another.

Sansa Stark stepped into her wedding gown, pulled the fabric over her waist and slipped her slender arms into the sleeves, the handmaidens securing the ribbons along the way. The bodice was a little tight, pressing her breasts in a way that created an alluring heart shape there. Maddy went to work lacing the delicate cloth-of-silver on the bodice while Gretchel fitted a tiara in her up-done hair. The train of the silvery grey gown was spread behind her, the hem a sparkling white. 

There was a knock on the door. “Who’s there?” Maddy called. “The bride is not to be seen until the ceremony!”

“I have a message from Ser Harry!” a young man’s voice yelled.

Maddy opened the door just a fraction. Some whispering could be heard from the other side, and then the handmaiden returned with a square box, a ribbon tied around it. Sansa quickly noticed it to be the favor she had granted him in the tourney. “For you, m’lady,” she said, handing the box over to Sansa.

There was a note affixed to the ribbon. _To my ‘comely-enough’ wife._ Sansa grinned, untying the ribbon, letting it fall to the floor as she opened the box excitedly. Her eyes grew wide.

Inside was a setting upon which lay a delicate necklace of white gold, imbedded with diamonds that sparkled seemingly from within. Above them were placed a pair of earrings made of the same stone, glimmering in the daylight. 

“Well,” Maddy said from over her shoulder, “The jewelry’s been decided, then, thankfully. We can put away this mess on the vanity.”

“Wait,” Sansa ordered as Gretchel clasped the hook of the necklace behind her neck, “give me that ring with the purple amethyst. It will go well with the lavender in my bouquet.”

“Of course, m’lady.” 

Sansa waited as Maddy looked for it, putting on the earrings. When the handmaiden gave her the ring, she placed in her right hand, looking down at it with some uncertainty. Publicly ousting herself as the daughter of the North was no safe exploit. She stood and went to her mirror. “I believe I am ready for the maiden cloak.”

When Maddy unfurled the cloak, all the women in the room stared in astonishment. The cloak was long enough to drape across the floor, made of the same fabric of her wedding gown, the trim ivory with sparkling beads. The sigil of House Stark was embroidered to perfection, the eyes of the direwolf fierce, white teeth glimmering with the stones sown onto them. Sansa felt herself being pulled to it, reaching out a hand to touch the snarling face.

“M-m’lady,” Maddy stammered, “We did not know.” The handmaidens gaped wildly at her, suddenly aware they were in the presence of not a lowborn bastard but a highborn maid, the heir to Winterfell. “It is like a fairy-tale,” one of them whispered.

Sansa smiled. “Very few people knew. Now don’t just stand there slack jawed and help me put this on!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The bouquet felt heavier than she imagined, but she inhaled the lovely scent of the peonies and lavender and found it calmed her nerves some. Littlefinger had come to her door to escort her to the Sept, and now the two of them walked along the winding corridors and staricases and out into the inner ward. She kept her eyes downcast the entire way from her bedchambers to the Septry, as was custom in the Vale. The first person she would lift her eyes to would be her husband when she met him on the dais. There were handmaidens behind her carrying her maiden cloak and singing along the way, variations of ‘The Lord of the House’ and ‘The Maiden Bride’s Tears.’ Sansa found the second one quiet strange, how it was deemed appropriate that a bride cry on her wedding day, to mourn leaving her old family for a new one. So Sansa Stark let fall some tears, recalling how she had mourned her family once long ago. _I wish you were here now,_ she thought distantly. She recalled the feeling of her mother’s soft hands as they combed her hair near the hearth, Robb laughing with Bran as they practiced their archery in the ward. She remembered how Arya had huffed and struggled with her needlework and how Rickon would love to play with his direwolf in the dirt, at the expense of his fine clothes. She even thought on Jon Snow, sending a silent prayer for her half-brother on the wall. _I was a bastard once, too, and now my husband will have bastards of his own. But I will look on them kindly as my father did you,_ she thought, a calmness settling in her. She tried to remember her father’s wise and calm eyes, the way they would crinkle when he laughed. 

It was not his hand but the Lord Protector’s that was on her elbow when they entered the Sept. Sansa could feel the eyes upon her, hear the gasps and whispers that resounded in the cavernous hall at the sight of the direwolf sigil. There was a scent of candles burning and a mixture of different perfumes from the ladies. From under her lashes she saw only their feet and skirts, unable to tell who was who. She focused on the pink and lavender petals in her hands, trying to settle the fluttering in her tummy. Suddenly the steps to the dais appeared before her and she was being led to the top. Her hands trembled. Littlefinger left her side then, and she was left to stare at her husband’s fine shoes.

“Blessed be the Seven who oversee us in this a most blissful day,” the septon began, and she found that it was not the Septon Meribald who spoke but another. “As we gather to witness the marriage of our lord Ser Harrold of House Hardyng to our Lady Sansa of House Stark…” The Septon’s voice echoed as he spoke of holy matrimony, and Sansa felt her eyes hover distractedly for just a fraction of a moment. She regretted that moment with all her life, for when she looked up she found the grey eyes of Sandor Clegane where he stood in his silver armor just below the dais, staring at her. She could not have lowered her eyes faster. A heat bloomed in her chest and for an instant she felt faint. _The wedding is ruined,_ a mad thought raked through her, but then she forcibly pulled herself back to her senses when Harry suddenly extended his hand.

Sansa knew what that meant. For a moment she considered doing nothing. _Don’t be foolish,_ a voice said. _You are a woman, and as such you must marry if you wish to secure yourself an army._ The Vale had ten thousand men to commandeer, larger than any other army in Westeros by far, Petyr had assured her. No other suitor would do. _You haven’t given another suitor a chance,_ a doubtful voice said, but she dispelled that thought quickly. _Who else is there with a claim this grand?_

She placed her hand upon his, and the Septon approached with the marital ribbon that would tie her to her husband forever. She hoped he would not notice how clammy her palm was on his. He gave her a light squeeze, and she attempted a reassuring smile, her gaze still on their joined hands, but the image of his scarred features still played behind her eyes from the foolish instant she had glimpsed him. His expression had been hard and unreadable.

The white ribbon felt silky on her hand. “Repeat these words now,” the Septon instructed, and both Harry and Sansa obeyed him as he bound their hands together.

“Blessed be the Seven who grant us this marriage,  
May the Father judge us by our faith,  
And the Mother bless us with fertility,  
May the Maiden grant us purity of heart,  
And the Crone give us clarity of mind,  
May the warrior strengthen us in times of hardship,  
And the Smith forge for us an everlasting bond,  
till the Stranger do us part.”

The Septon unbound their hands again and she looked up at her new husband. His handsome features were smiling proudly and the crowds erupted in cheers and applause. His sandy blonde hair was combed back, and his dimples were deep set. Sansa knew it was time for her to turn. His hands came around her shoulders to unclasp the Stark maiden cloak and a servant quickly went to retrieve it. Then she felt Harry’s cloak of protection cover her, its warmth soothing her. _It is done,_ Sansa thought as she turned back around to face him

He leaned in to give her a soft kiss on her mouth, a hand coming up to her cheek. It wiped at a wetness that she hadn’t noticed was there. 

He led her by hand down the dais, raising her hand high as if to show her off. She smiled at all the familiar and new faces in the Sept. White petals descended from overhead, showering them as they walked to the large double doors. Mya was whistling from where she stood on the Warrior’s alter to get a better look. Sansa waved to her, and to Myranda who stood close by near the aisle. She turned to wave to the others, seeing Petyr and Sweetrobin following not far behind them with Lord Hunter and Lord Templeton nearby. Sandor still stood with the Brotherhood of the Winged Guard at the foot of the dais, his face becoming harder and harder to see through the crowd.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“This is the strangest day of my life,” Harry said, looking down at her. He had not let go of her since they left the Sept, keeping her close to his warmth as if someone would steal her away at any moment. He wore a fine, form-fitting doublet, the red and white diamonds of House Hardyng embroidered on the front.

“Is that good or bad?” Sansa asked, her hands resting lightly on his chest. They were awaiting the signal to enter the Great Hall for the feast to begin.

He responded with a kiss to her lips. “Very good. Unbelievably good.” His dark blue eyes searched her face. “I see you so differently now.”

 _Of course you do,_ she thought. _You’d resigned yourself to marry a lowly bastard and ended up with an entirely different highborn maid._ She smiled sweetly up at him, touching the necklace at her clavicle. “Thank you for the gifts. They are lovely.”

“Not as lovely as you,” he said, “I thought the Maiden herself was walking towards me in the Sept.”

The men at arms that stood to attention pulled back the doors. Harry took her hand in his. People clapped and shouted their blessings at their entrance, and they were met with more flower petals being thrown all around them. “Ladies and gentlemen,” an announcer called, “Pray, open the dance!” With that, the musicians took up a tune and the bride and groom danced as all the others looked on. It was not long before they broke from one another to take different partners. Sansa scanned the onlookers, finding her little lord flanked by Ser Roland and Sandor. She curtsied. “My lord, will you have this dance?”

He nodded, walking out with her to the marble floor. They spoke as they danced slowly so as not to rattle him. “Why didn’t you tell me you were really Sansa Stark?” He asked, looking up at her with round brown eyes. “Doesn’t that make you my cousin?”

She stroked his long, chestnut brown hair. “It does, Sweetrobin. And I’m sorry for not telling you, but I needed to keep it a secret until I knew it was safe.”

“Well, you’re safe here. I promise.”

Sansa grinned down at him, squeezed his hand in her palm. The song had ended then, and another, rougher hand took hers for a dance. When she looked up she was met with the bushy eyebrows and lined face of the Lord of Runestone and head of House Royce. “It appears,” Bronze Yohn gruffed from under his grey mustache, “that Littlefinger means to force our hand.”

“Lord Royce,” Sansa said, surprised. “I am pleased to see you decided to come.” He was incredibly sure-footed for a man of his age. He stood as tall as Sandor, and wore a doublet of black and orange. Sansa wondered if the rumor that he wore the runestone breastplate at all times was indeed true. 

“I see it was good that I did. There was an air of familiarity about you when we first met. Now I see. You are the splitting image of your mother.”

Sansa distantly recalled when she had seen Bronze Yohn at the Hand’s Tourney in King’s Landing, and even before that, a long time ago, to the time he spent at Winterfell when his son came up to take the black. She recalled him speaking quietly with her mother and his voice booming off the walls when he rode back from a successful hunt. “Thank you,” she said, not knowing how to respond. “I remember when you visited Winterfell when I was a child. How you bested my father and Ser Rodrick in the yard.”

“You should have made yourself known earlier. I would have fostered you at Runestone, both you and Robert. Granted, you are both nearby in the Gates of the Moon now. It is safe enough here.” People were staring wildly at them, whispering to one another, a slight tension forming in the hall. The enmity between Bronze and Littlefinger was well known throughout the Vale.

“You never fought for my brother,” Sansa confessed. “I did not know whether you were willing to protect me.”

His bushy eyebrows furrowed. “I often urged the Lady Lysa to participate in the War of the Five Kings. But she was a stubborn, frightful woman. She would not budge even after the atrocities committed at the Twins. It was my duty to heed my Lady’s commands, no matter how I fought against it.” He cleared his throat. 

Sansa considered the man before her. “If I may, my lord, what made you decide to join us today? There have been quarters reserved for you since before the tourney.”

“I can smell a plot from leagues away,” he said, wiggling his mustache. That made her skin crawl. After the song had ended, Sansa politely declined the other invitations to dance, going to her seat on the dais instead. Someone had left the bouquet on the chair. Sweetrobin was seated right beside her, pushing a spoon over his steamed beans and vegetables with Maester Coleman standing at the ready. The fact that she hadn’t eaten all day suddenly struck her with full force. The cooks had roasted a wild boar, the ribs of which sat upon a silver platter. There was hot-baked bread, herb crusted pike and trout and salmon and buttered beats as well. Baked pies of various fruits lined the tabletops. She took a bite of one of the sweet pastries now, watching where her Harry was entertaining a dance with Ysilla Royce, Bronze Yohn’s daughter and Mychel Redfort’s new wife. _Mya will not be enjoying this over much._

She spotted Mya on the outskirts of the floor, seemingly refusing Ser Lothor Brune a dance. Sansa found that unfortunate. Lothor had once told her that young girls were always happiest with older men. _Innocence and experience make for a perfect marriage._ Sandor stood not far behind her on his guardship duties. She chanced to look at him from over her shoulder. His eyes found hers instantly, and she felt safe suddenly knowing he was there. A smile found her lips. His scarred face was unreadable, his gauntlets held crossed at his waist. She thought she noticed an almost imperceptible nod. Sansa went back to her food, forcing some impossible thoughts from her mind. For one reason or another she did not take Sandor as a man who liked to dance.

Her gaze scanned the Great Hall, and she found Brienne of Tarth having a pint with her young squire. _Podrick,_ she recalled his name. She wished to go have some friendly conversation with them but her station during this feast would not allow it. 

“May I have this dance?” A familiar voice said from nearby. Petyr extended his hand to her. She forced a smile for him, took his hand as she stood to accompany him to the floor.

“The feast is going well,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Bronze Yohn hasn’t attempted to murder you yet.”

His pointy beard tilted with his smirk. “It is still too early to tell, but I would wager he won’t be trying me tonight.” He spun her once, her silvery skirts swaying about her hips. “Look at them,” he said, “How they all gaze at you, your beauty. I knew they would love you. Your tale will be sung all throughout Westeros come morning.”

“The queen will know,” she stated, her pulse quickening.

He squeezed her hand in his, looked at her with his pale green eyes. “Let us hope she does. And let us hope she is foolish enough to send what remains of her men. She will send all her pawns and leave herself unprotected in that ravaged city. No, sweetling, you have naught to fear of the queen.”

He had a look about him as though he meant to kiss her, but instead he squeezed her about her waist. “A pity the first night has been banned for ages.” His eyes roamed over her. She blushed at that and he only smiled down at her. 

Petyr led her in the dance for a moment longer before the music suddenly faltered. There were some gasps and shouts near the dais, three or four servants rushing to something just beneath the table. _Near my seat,_ she saw. Worry struck her abruptly, and she looked instinctively to the ring on her finger. The amethyst was blessedly still there. She moved to go see what was occurring but Littlefinger held her steady. She stared up at him, but his gaze was fixed on the dais. Understanding flooded her mind. 

Sansa wrenched herself free from his grasp, running to the long trestle table. She dreaded to see what lay behind the tablecloth, _who_ lay behind the tablecloth. _He wouldn’t,_ she thought, _He is just a child._ But some part of her already knew what she would find there, a strong force quickening her pace.

She did not need any visual confirmation. There were louder shouts now, the music halted completely. Her little lord was having a seizure like no other, foam spilling from his mouth. Lothor and Roland were there on the floor with him, trying to hold down his arms and legs but it did no good to quell the convulsions. “Sweetrobin,” she gasped, a hand going to his face. It felt cool and slick with sweat. Maester Coleman was there yelling orders for Brune to sit the boy straight up, and soon the shaking fit stopped. His head hung limply from his shoulders, long brown hair falling over his face. 

“Check his pulse,” Sansa said, but her order was drowned out by the cacophony around her. She heard Bronze Yohn’s booming voice above all else. “Seven bloody hells! Seize him! Seize him this instant!” Sansa looked above the table just in time to see two of Bronze’s men, including Lyn Corbray, make for Littlefinger, but they were blocked by several of the latter’s men-at-arms. Her heart raced to see Sandor among them, standing in Petyr’s defense. _What on earth is he doing?_ The men held their hands on the pommels of their swords, ready to draw at any moment but hesitating due to guest right. Littlefinger held his hands up innocently, palms facing the tall man. “On what basis do you wish to arrest me, Lord Royce?”

“My lady,” Maester Coleman croaked nearby, dragging her back to the other crisis at hand. “The boy’s pulse seems to have been lost.”

Realization struck her, then. _The sweetmilk_. “No,” she said, under her breath.

“For your plot to murder the Lord Robert Arryn,” Bronze Yohn seethed.

“How dare you, my lord. He is a son to me!” They were about to arrest Littlefinger, but some wild instinct made her wish the opposite. _I need him,_ she thought, feeling ill. _He has made me his pawn for true._ She looked down at Sweetrobin’s pale face, peaceful in its deathly stillness. For a moment she almost lifted an accusatory finger to Maester Coleman, but she stopped herself. _He was being used here, just as I am._ “Take him to the infirmary,” she ordered Brune. “Try to resuscitate him.” She knew it was futile.

The situation on the dancing space had yet to be resolved. Lady Waynwood inserted herself between the two men and their guards. “Enough of this,” she fumed, the loose skin under her neck quivering, “Let us not throw accusations at one another like some children at play. We will have a fair trial like civil adults. Put away your swords and daggers! The Lord Arryn has just died! There will be no talk of a plot until we have evidence.” 

“We have no need for evidence,” Lyn said, drawing his steel. There were gasps throughout the hall. Sansa saw Clegane take a step forward, her heart in her throat. “We’ve known this snake does not lack for ambition,” he said, pointing at Littlefinger.

“Corbray, you shame us again. Sheath your sword before you face charges in violation of your guest right!” Lady Anya Waynwood turned to Bronze Yohn now. “Order your men to stand down. We will settle this matter on the morrow when we are not drunk and confused.”

The tall lord glared at Littlefinger beneath his thick, bushy eyebrows. He raised a hand, and the bannermen dispersed, but the look on his face was less than forgiving. “I’ll have my men stationed at the gates in case he tries to slither from our grasps.”

Harrold Hardyng pushed through the throng of men and women to come to her side behind the dais. His words were somewhat slurred due to drink. “Wha’happened? S’he alright?” There was an expression of genuine concern on his face.

Sansa shook her head, looking sadly at his perfect face. “He had a most violent shaking fit. It was… mortal.” She bowed her head, bidding some tears to fall, but they would not come. Instead she felt numb, with shock or guilt she could not tell. Harry pulled her to him, hugging her to his chest. “How _dreadfully_ awful,” he hissed, petting her hair. “To think, this day could’ve been perfect.” Sansa closed her eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The long hall of the infirmary was dark and empty but for a single cot. Some candles had been lit nearby, illuminating the boy’s porcelain face, his silky brown hair splayed on the pillow. The attempts to resuscitate him had failed, as she knew they would. Sansa sat in a stool at his side, a warm hand placed over a cold one. She still could not find it in her to weep. _Some part of you wanted this, that is why,_ some demon said. _I become more and more his protégé every day. Has the steel seeped from my skin to my heart?_

“My lady, it is growing late,” Maester Coleman said from above her.

She shuddered at the sound of his voice. “A moment longer,” she pleaded. Soon they would take Sweetrobin’s lifeless body to prepare for the funeral rites. There had been no bedding – the guests were promptly dismissed from the hall as Lord Royce and his men made their investigations of the dais, searching for some evidence with which to accuse Littlefinger. _They will find nothing,_ she knew. Traces of sweetmilk might have been found on the goblet the boy had drunk from, but Sansa remembered that the contents had spilled to the floor when Sweetrobin began his vicious convulsions, lost forever. 

Harry had accompanied her to the infirmary for a short while, sitting with her and soothing her. “You knew the boy far better than I did,” he had said sadly before retreating to his chambers to sleep. Sansa remained there long after, mourning the loss of her cousin but also mourning something more. _Mourning any essence of my freedom,_ she thought dully, thinking on how Littlefinger had manipulated her, tricking her into thinking the boy had more time than he did, giving her false hope with the Elder Brother. And yet… _And yet I must benefit from his maneuverings still._ He meant to give her Winterfell, that she knew for true, for his own ambition if not his love for her. _He also said he would do more,_ she thought distantly, but she was far too weary to think on that now.

It was hard to imagine that it was only some hours ago that she had said her vows. 

Sansa Stark stood, smoothing out her skirts. She lit a taper and made her way out of the infirmary, saying goodbye to Maester Coleman. The halls were quiet and empty, a stillness in the air. Some torches had been lit in their sconces to light the otherwise pitch corridors. The ways back to the Tower of the Guard were closer than her previous chambers. _I go now to my marital bed,_ she thought numbly. _Like the dutiful wife I am meant to be._ What was once a dream of hers had become nothing but a solemn duty. A memory from long ago came to her, of a frightened young girl asking a warrior what her betrothed would want of her. _He wants you to smile and smell sweet and be his lady love,_ he had said in a harsh voice. _He wants you to love him… and fear him._ She turned around the bend, seeing the eight doors of the Winged Guard that lined the corridor. She wondered what would happen to them now that Sweetrobin no longer lived. 

She abandoned her slippers to quiet their clicking, walking as if on ice towards the doors. The hall was empty, and she brought her taper up to illuminate the steel blades and shield that hung on the door. With one delicate hand she pushed on the hardwood door, slipping into the room as quiet as a ghost. She let the taper burn, setting it aside on a nearby table. Then she turned to face the grand featherbed.

He had his naked back to her, breathing deeply in his sleep, the light of the taper playing off the muscles there, a shadow following the long valley of his spine. Sansa’s fingers went to the cloth-of-silver at her bodice, unlacing the ties, letting the rich gown fall in a heap to the floor. Then came her smallclothes and her stockings, the pins and clips falling from her hair. She set the tiara down delicately with the taper. In nothing but a thin slip to cover her nakedness, she lifted a knee onto the coverlet.

The man did not move until she pulled at the thin sheet covering his nakedness. His hand shot out to grab at the cloth, staring wildly at her. 

“Little bird,” he rasped. “What-”

But she placed a hand over his lips, silencing him. Her throat was tight and her chest felt warm, a tear threatened to fall from her eye. _Now you come?_

Sandor’s chest was heaving. She had never known the Hound to be afraid of anything. _But this is a different man._

“I find myself,” she whispered, “unable to control where my thoughts lead.” She let her slip fall from her shoulders. “Where my heart leads.” The tear held true to its threat. She moved towards him, but a rough hand caught her by the arm.

“Your husband…” he grated

Sansa lifted a hand to cup his cheek. “You will be my husband tonight.”

Crawling into his lap, her lips sought out his own, finding the wet softness and the scarred roughness. She sighed into his wanting mouth when his warm hands slid up her thighs and to her bottom, his surprise at finding nothing there evident in his face when he broke their kiss. Sansa could not help but smile at that, and was surprised to see his scars twist in a smile in return.

His hands pulled the thin shift over her head, leaving her naked as her nameday. The palms of her hands were on his massive shoulders, her lips seeking his kiss again. Her thighs were spread over the heat in his lap, sitting astride him as she did her horse. The warmth of his hands traveled along her body, squeezing her breasts once roughly in a way that made her suck in a breath before his tongue was in her mouth again. Teeth bit gently on her lower lip. Sansa took one of his hands and guided it down between her legs, longing for the same feelings he had gifted her some nights before. Grey eyes watched her as a finger teased her entrance, sliding over a wetness and going to tickle her nub. She closed her eyes, lay her forehead in the crook of his neck as her hips ground onto the hardness in his lap, smelling leather and steel.

“I know, I know…” he rasped hoarsely, one hand going to rub at the small of her back. A thick digit pushed inside of her and Sansa felt herself pulse around it. Sandor made a noise that sounded very much like a growl as he pushed in and out of her. Her breasts were pressed against his chest, his hand that was not working her going to one thigh, pulling her up a little and pushing her back down. “This is what I want you to do,” he whispered roughly in her ear. She could not get out any words from the tightness in her chest, so she nodded submissively through lidded eyes.

The digit left her then, and he lifted her so that she was at eye level with him, his scarred features so close to hers, her hands still on his shoulders as if to hold on for dear life. A hand came around her to position his cock at her entrance and she began to slowly settle herself onto his girth. There was a delicious sensation of being stretched thin, but she could only manage to move an inch before some pain emerged. Sansa sucked in a breath.

“Go slow,” he urged, voice rough with what sounded like frustration. One of his hands went to her head, fingers threading through the hair at the back of her scalp. The other was gripping her bottom, moving her up and down in little maddening increments. It was easier with each push, and soon Sansa found he was sheathed most of the way inside of her, sliding into her easily. She kept moving on him, up and down as his lips kissed and sucked at her neck, her breaths growing ragged. The bottoms of her thighs met the tops of his, his full length impaling her. Sansa started to ride him in earnest now, her hips grinding into his.

Suddenly he fell back on the featherbed, dragging her to lay above him, his thickness still embedded in her. Sansa was glad for the relief – her hips were becoming sore from exerting herself so much. His chest was hard and hot, the skin on the scars there feeling smooth under her fingers. Callused hands found her hips, pushing them down as he began to pump up into her slowly. She rested her head on his chest, panting with pleasure. There was a sheen of sweat along her whole body. Sandor’s thrusts became quicker and rougher, and soon she had to go to her hands to push back to meet him fairly. She met his eyes once before she felt her peak coming on quickly. She was making strange noises now, nodding at him in a way that made him pump harder and faster and then she was crashing, her cunt pulsating around him. She rode out the feeling for a moment longer before he pulled her roughly off of him, his cock sliding out of her wetly. A fist went to pump there quickly and soon there was that same white fluid spilling onto his abdomen.

Sansa could not help but feel a little disappointed at that, but she knew it was necessary. Through the dim light of the taper she was able to make out another substance on him. “There’s some blood,” she whispered.

“I’ll clean it. Go, before someone finds us,” he said in a low voice.

She looked around at the mess they had made, her things strewn everywhere. “It won’t always be this way,” she heard herself say. “Somehow I know it won’t.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When she awoke the next morning, she found herself in her husband’s bed. Her _real_ husband’s bed. She would have thought the previous night to be a dream if it were not for the soreness between her legs. She stared up at the decorative canopy. The morning brought with it a number of realizations. For one, she was a married woman now. Second, she was a maiden no longer, and third, Sweetrobin was dead, thusly making her the Lady of the Vale, and her husband the new Lord. The blonde man turned to face her now, a groggy smile on his face. “Good morrow,” he said, stretching.

“It is not so good,” she said solemnly. 

He furrowed his brow in confusion for a moment, then quickly realized his mistake. “Oh, right. Well, this is going to be quite an eventful day, isn’t it?”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings" has been marked on this fic since day one. I suck at tagging so read at your own risk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the trigger warnings to this fic (ie. Voyeurism, Dubious Consent, Violence)

The air in the Sept was thick with the smell of incense. Candles lined the walls and the altars of the Seven. Sweetrobin’s bier was laid out beneath the Stranger’s altar, leading his soul into the afterlife. They had dressed the boy in his favorite blue and cream doublet, the falcon-and-moon emblazoned on the front. _The last Arryn,_ Sansa thought sadly. The pebbles set upon his eyes were inscribed with the seven-pointed star. She lifted her ebony skirts and knelt to say a silent prayer. _Lead him to the heavens, and let his soul find rest and peace. Let him hear the tales from the Winged Knight himself._

There were two others in the Sept with her, a couple of ladies-in-waiting that she remembered had been speaking to Myranda one night during the feasts. They stood some ways off, eyeing her suspiciously. Sansa could have sworn she heard them say something about a curse but she chose to ignore them. She had already heard the rumors – that the Stark girl had fled King’s Landing, taking a wedding curse with her that killed one unlucky enough to hold the highest title at any wedding she attended, whether he be a lord or a king. There was another rumor still that she was some witch who sought her revenge for her family by killing others at weddings. All preposterous, of course. It was late, and soon Ser Roland Waynwood would come to stand vigil for the little lord. He would wear the silver armor of the Winged Guard. She stepped out into the outer ward, finding the darkness of night had fallen all throughout the castle grounds. She pulled her cloak closer about her shoulders in the chill.

Before entering her marital chambers she stopped to look at the door opposite. The steel swords crossed over the shield, the place where her hand had pushed the door open the night before. _That was ill done,_ she thought, but not because of the potential danger. She was afraid she may have hurt him, given him something he may never have again. _But I gave it willingly. It was my choice,_ and there was no going back in time to erase what she had done.

She wondered whether he was in there now, sleeping soundly. _Sleeping naked, as you had found him,_ a distant voice said, but she shook the thought from her mind.

Harry was already in bed when she entered their chambers. She went to the solar to change into her nightshift, finding the garment laid out for her by her chambermaid. When she crawled into bed, she found her husband to be awake. He reached for her, pulling her close to him. She resisted enough for him to notice.

“We are husband and wife now, are we not?” he whispered.

Sansa sighed. “Yes, but… it is too soon, I think. I need some time,” she tried.

Harry rolled to his back. He was naked beneath the coverlet, his muscled chest uncovered where the fabric slipped lower. “I suppose I understand. You were close to him, after all.”

She whispered a barely audible “Thank you,” closing her eyes on the pillow in relief. This made the second night the two had shared together in which they had yet to consummate their marriage. She wondered how much longer the excuse would hold, lamenting that there should be an excuse at all. Her thoughts traveled deeper in her effort to sleep, imagining what would have occurred had Sandor Clegane never showed his scarred face in the Vale. She might have loved Harrold Hardyng. She might have taken him to bed willingly. _If it were not for him I might have found some happiness in all this,_ she thought cruelly. But that was unfair, she knew. He did not know he would find her here, did not think he would ever see her again. She had thought the same for him.

He was here now. She had even asked him to stay, for her own desire to have him near. _He is safer here,_ she tried to rationalize, _He has comfortable quarters and a good position._ But she did not know how long that would last now. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Some wine for our esteemed Lords, please,” Baelish called to the servant.

It was a strange feeling to not have to be the one to retrieve the wine for once. Instead, Sansa was seated at a long trestle table in the Lord Protector’s solar after the midday meals, to the right of her husband, the Lord Protector himself, Harrold Hardyng. Lady Waynwood sat with a tired expression on her lined face. The brooch of a wheel with a broken spoke was fastened upon her black woolen gown. Lord Templeton, the Knight of Ninestars, was seated beside her with his large beak nose and pointed beard. He was one of the Lords who had attended Lord Lyonel Corbray’s wedding along with Lord Belmore, a marriage that Petyr had brokered. Both of the Lords and Lady Waynwood would likely come to Littlefinger’s defense, Sansa predicted. The young Lord Hunter was there, although he was by no means young at all, a heavy set man of about fifty with a bushy mustache. Lord Redfort studied Littlefinger with mild eyes. _His son is married to Bronze Yohn’s daughter,_ Sansa recalled, figuring he would likely back the Yohn’s accusations. Lord Nestor Royce was not one of the Lords Declarant, but he was seated at the table nonetheless. His brother, Bronze Yohn, opted to stand with his hands behind his back a few paces away, as if to proclaim a detachment from the rest.

Sansa shifted in her seat, waiting as the servant poured their wine. There were guards in the room as well, Ser Lyn and Sandor Clegane, stationed near the entrance of the solar as well a couple of Bronze Yohn’s men-at-arms. Both Sandor and Lyn had opted to keep their fine armor of the Winged Guard. The tall, scarred man did not look exactly cheerful to be standing next to the catspaw.

“Let us commence these deliberations,” Petyr started, “with outlining what should be done with our champions of the tourney. Now, they were entitled to three years of paid service to the late Lord Arryn’s personal guard. I think it would only be proper they be allowed to see their guardship to the end.”

“I cannot be a guard and the Lord Protector,” Harry interjected near her. 

“Of course, my Lord, you being the exception here,” Petyr adjusted.

“Who exactly would they guard?” asked Lord Belmore.

“Why the new Lord and Lady of the Vale, of course. The Lady Sansa will likely need the extra protection now that her identity is known to all.”

“That is another matter,” Lady Waynwood interrupted. “We were not exactly prepared to be harboring a fugitive of the crown.”

“My _wife_ is safe in the Vale. Should anyone attempt to arrest her I’ll have them killed outright,” Harry said, to Sansa’s surprise. He placed his hand over hers on the oaken table.

“And should King Tommen send his forces to contest us?” asked Lord Templeton. 

“The Vale has more than enough willing men to block his advances,” Petyr offered.

“Do you suggest we send our men to war?” Lord Redfort asked. His question was directed to Bronze Yohn, but Littlefinger answered in his stead.

“I believe it is long overdue,” Littefinger said boldly. “As Lysa’s niece and the wife of the Lord Protector it is our duty to defend her. The Lord Yohn will not disagree with me on this, I think. You were a friend of Ned Stark’s, were you not?”

Bronze Yohn ignored his question and addressed the table instead. “If Cersei wants to send her troops our way let her try – she’ll be met with men and steel to match every soldier of hers thrice over.” Sansa smiled at the gruff man, but his stern eyes were fixed on Baelish. Harry squeezed her hand where he held it.

The tall lord continued. “I take issue however, when you say _our_ duty, Lord Baelish. _You_ have no duty here other than to answer for your crimes.” 

“My duty is to provide council where the Lord Protector sees fit.”

“We can scarce deny,” said Lord Belmore, coming to Petyr’s defense, “that the Lord Baelish has garnered for us quite a profitable income in the trades as we have not seen in years, on the heels of winter no less. He has more than proven his expertise in matters of commerce. We should take care to consider the benefits of keeping him on as a councilor.”

The table was quiet for a moment, all eyes looking to Harry for his answer. But then Lyn Corbray spoke up. “There is another matter I’d like to bring to the table,” he called, casually walking over to them. “It has come to my attention that this marriage is one in name only. It is a ploy to gather the men of the Vale to a cause for which none of them enlisted, only to be dumped after they’ve been used.”

Lady Waynwood squinted her eyes at him. “Speak clearly, now.”

“She guards her cunt like a dragon its gold, just as she did with the Imp.” All eyes around the table grew wide. Sansa reddened with humilation. 

“Do not be obscene!” Lady Waynwood raged. Harry had reddened as well, and she quickly realized it was he who let loose this secret of theirs.

“This marriage is not valid until it has been consummated-”

“It’s only been two days. She is still grieving,” Sandor Clegane growled from nearby. Sansa’s mouth became very dry, worry tying into a knot in her tummy.

“Fuck her grief,” Lyn spat, “Unless this is done, this marriage is a sham. I will see this marriage consummated lest there be any doubt. There must be proof.”

Sandor Clegane was glaring daggers at Lyn. “This is an insult to the girl,” he grated with barely concealed rage.

“Nay, I dare say this is a slight against me,” Littlefinger placed both hands on the table. “What would you have us do, then? Force the poor girl in her time of grief?”

A smirk appeared on Corbray’s lips. “I will bear witness to this consummation. I and one of your party. Clegane, perhaps.” Lyn meant to goad him, and it worked. Sandor’s hand flexed over the handle of his sword.

“What perversion is this?” Sansa finally found her voice, and it trembled with shame. “You would put me on display?” She looked to Petyr, to Harry, to anyone, but none said a word. Lady Waynwood’s brow was wrinkled with concern. _Have I no choice in this matter, then? In my own private affairs?_ She was mostly disturbed at Littlefinger’s lack of fury at this ridiculous, barbaric proposal. _Is this what it means to be a woman in this world? Are we all to be relegated to pawns due to the accident of our bodies?_

“If it is proof you need then proof you shall have,” Petyr said solemnly, “you may bear witness to the consummation tonight. Clegane, see to it this vermin does not lie about what he’s witnessed.” 

Sandor’s knuckles were white where he gripped his longsword. Sansa almost hoped he would kill Lyn there and then, for all to see. She wanted to run to her chambers, cry into her featherbed until she woke from this horrid nightmare. She almost went to stand, until Bronze Yohn spoke again. “Have we laid this farce to rest? Are there any more matters to be dealt with? No?” 

Petyr Baelish rested his elbows on his chair, regarding Bronze Yohn when no one answered. Lady Anya brought her hand to her temple. “My lord, I fail to see any benefit Lord Baelish would find to have Lord Robert murdered, may his soul rest. Lord Baelish is no longer the Lord Protector.”

“He means to force us to come to terms with his place here earlier than we expected,” the head of House Royce replied. “He means to secure himself a position of influence based on mastery of coin alone. I’ll not have it.”

“We will not entertain any accusations for murder unless you have evidence of wrong-doing,” said Lord Nestor.

Bronze Yohn lifted a hand to his men-at-arms. “Bring him in.”

Sansa turned to the double doors to see two men-at-arms dragging in Maester Coleman, the links dangling from his neck and other, tighter chains shackled to his hands. Her heart began to race, but she tried to keep her face calm. _He is caught. Littlefinger will have to answer to this._ Petyr Baelish’s face was unreadable.

“My men found him trying to sneak out from the western gate disguised as a brother. Upon questioning, the man revealed to us he was instructed by the former Lord Protector to give the boy sweetmilk during the feast, a _poison_ when ingested in excess-”

“A mere _precaution_ due to his fragile state, more like. The feasts and loud music were wont to set him to shaking. I firmly instructed the maester not to over-do it-”

“And how curious that he did just the opposite,” Bronze Yohn said.

“Will we let the man speak for himself?” Lady Waynwood interjected. She turned her aged face to Maester Coleman. “Is this true, Maester? Did Lord Baelish instruct you to give the boy sweetmilk during the wedding feast?”

Sansa watched the old man, struggling to hold still so as not to rattle his chains. “This is true.”

“And did Baelish in any way insinuate that you give the boy more than an appropriate dose?”

His attempts at holding still failed. The old man’s frail hands began to tremble. “H-he told me to give him enough sweetmilk that is like to have the boy never shake again.”

Petyr spoke up. “Lies. This aging Maester’s mistake is not mine to claim. The Elder Brother was far better equipped to handle the boy’s illness than this ragged fool, and now out of his jealous rage he means to frame me for murder. I often begged the Elder Brother to stay and tend to the boy but he would not listen. Isn’t that true, my lady?”

Suddenly Sansa realized everyone was looking to her for an answer. Her mind jolted back to the matters at hand, thinking quickly of what to say next. _What was it I had read in that letter on Littlefinger’s desk? About Cersei?_ It was a risk, but… “Might I suggest something?” she said.

They all looked at her expectantly. 

“A trial by combat,” said Sansa Stark, staring at Littlefinger. “Let the Gods decide upon your innocence, my lord.”

Petyr Baelish’s eyes seemed to glimmer. Bronze Yohn’s voice boomed. “A trial by combat! Corbray, finally, your chance to draw your blade.”

The catspaw’s face had grown deathly pale. He was in quiet a predicament. _Refuse and you are doomed to pay with your life for your catspawing. Accept and you may still live yet, though it will cut any income should you win and Petyr die._ Sansa stared at him, waiting for his answer but knowing well what it would be. Lyn Corbray was a skilled swordsman, but the Vale did not lack for men to match him.

“Y-Yes,” he seemed to choke, “yes, a chance to kill this…this snake once and for all? I have _dreamed_ of this day!” 

“Lord Baelish, name your champion,” the Lord Royce huffed proudly. “Unless you plan to take up the sword yourself as you did against Brandon Stark. Hah!”

Baelish seemed to recoil just a fraction. “Have I no choice in this matter, then? Does it not lie with the accused to demand a trial by combat?”

“I offer my sword,” said a voice, and when he spoke Sansa felt her heart sink to the floor. Sandor Clegane stepped closer, mouth twitching in Corbray’s direction. “Give me the pleasure of killing this fool,” he rasped.

“It seems my champion has chosen himself,” Littlefinger conceded. “When will this trial take place?”

“On the morrow,” said Lord Nestor, “We have exhausted ourselves enough for one day. Lord Baelish, we will not lock in you in a cell but you are to remain in your chambers until the trial takes place. You will be heavily guarded and your meals will be brought to you at the appropriate times…” As Lord Nestor Royce described the terms of Littlefinger’s imprisonment, Sansa’s mind raced. She excused herself from the table, feeling a sudden desire to breath fresh air. Sandor Clegane held the door open for her as she made to leave. His eyes regarded her, and she wished to pull him to the side and tell him… _tell him what? How sorry you are that you love him? That he must now bear witness to your consummation?_ Her skirts swished past him before her heart was wrenched from her utterly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Maid of Tarth waited at the steps of the Sept when she eyed Sansa in the outer ward. Sansa lifted her skirts as she took the steps and Brienne followed her into the edifice. Sweetrobin’s bier was now lined with scented candles to remove the odor of decay. Sansa went to the altar of the Stranger and lit a candle, saying a silent prayer for the little lord.

“My lady, there’s been some news,” the warrior woman said.

Sansa scanned the lobby for eavesdroppers. There were a couple of septas who were walking by, but other than that the Sept was empty. “What news?” she asked. 

“As you know, word here travels very quickly. Some Northmen will be paying a visit to the Vale soon. Most definitely to see you. They may seek to gauge the veracity of your identity.” 

_Or pledge their swords to me?_ “Do you know of any names?”

“Word had it that a caravan from White Harbor rides south. Stout, Manderly, Dustin, Umber, Hornwood, that is all I could gather. My lady, allowing these men into our midst could prove dangerous-”

“Their allegiances lie with the Boltons, yes. They will either seek to kill me or pay their respects to me, although I don’t see how they would go about doing the former. I will need to speak with Petyr.” She looked at Sweetrobin’s pale face, so peaceful in its stillness.

“A tragedy the boy died so young,” Brienne said.

“Petyr stands accused of his murder,” she admitted, “I suggested a trial by combat at a meeting earlier. It’ll be held on the morrow.”

“And he agreed? Is he such a fool to think he can wield a sword, after what Brandon Stark did to him?”

Sansa shook her head, closed her eyes for a moment. “Sandor Clegane will be his champion. He offered his sword against Corbray.”

Brienne lifted one large hand to Sansa’s shoulder. “You seem concerned,” she offered.

“I did not intend to put him in harms way,” she confessed. “It is because of me that he offered his sword…”

The straw-haired woman pushed her shoulder so that she faced her. “Clegane is a formidable man, Sansa. He will fare just fine, you will see.” She stopped, regarded Sansa with her sapphire blue eyes. “You feel sorry for him but you should not. He would do anything for you, my lady. He loves you.”

“I don’t feel sorry… what?” She looked at Brienne uncomprehending. 

The tall woman seemed to hesitate. “H-he did not say it so much with _words,_ but, well, I had visited the Quiet Isle once, long ago, in search of you. I spoke with the Elder Brother and I described you to him. He was able to discern your identity immediately, as if… as if someone had already spoken to him about you in earnest.”

_Even then, I wanted you,_ she recalled him telling her one night. She was hardly in any state of mind to truly understand his words, what he was trying to tell her.

“I don’t feel sorry for him.” she heard herself say. _I love him._

Brienne frowned in a way that lengthened the mangled scars on her cheeks. “Of course not, my lady.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The chambers of the Winged Guard were large enough to house a solar, so a curtain had been set between that section and the bedroom. It was made of a sheer material thin enough to see through but dark enough to imagine some modicum of privacy was being had. Having witnesses to a consummation was an ancient practice long abandoned by the civilized folk. _But Ser Lyn Corbray is far from civilized,_ she thought with some vehemence. Some candles had been lit near the walls. Her tummy twisted in humiliation and nervousness and her skin crawled whenever she imagined his disturbing eyes leering at her. Sansa could make out where he now sat just beyond the curtain some fifteen paces away, kissing his teeth at her. Sandor Clegane was seated away from him, closer to where she now stood. She felt exposed while still in her nightshift.

Harry went to her, placing his hands on her arms. “Sansa, I’m so sorry,” he said for the thousandth time. “I had a slip of the tongue during the morning meals. You know how us men are. You must forgive me,” he had begged her during the feast. It was not the first time he had begged for her forgiveness. She did not consider talking openly of what occurred in the privacy of their featherbed to be very knightly of him. But now that privacy had all but vanished completely. 

He sighed before her, wearing nothing but his breeches. “I will not take you by force if you are not ready-”

“No,” she conceded, letting her hands go to his naked chest. _It must be done sooner rather than later._ There was no knowing how Lyn would react should she outright deny her husband now. She pressed lightly on his warm skin, guiding him to the featherbed. Harry climbed atop of it, removing his breeches in the process. He was already aroused. _Perhaps this is what Lyn wanted after all, a glimpse of my husband._

Sansa took a deep breath, readying herself. She let the nightgown fall from her shoulders, leaving her completely naked, unable to prevent the rush of blood in her neck and face.

“Ahh, beautiful,” she heard Lyn say derisively. Sansa tried to ignore him.

When she was on the large featherbed, Harry went to her lips immediately, kissing her hungrily. Soon he laid her down on her back, positioning himself above her. Sansa laid her head down on the pillow, closing her eyes as Harry went to her neck, his hands sliding down to her breasts and hips. She reached around to touch his back, his smooth skin unmarred under her fingers. Her legs opened for him as he found her lips again, breathing hard. His cock was at her entrance, probing, but it felt too rough. His hand went down to guide himself in, and when she felt him move inside her she opened her eyes where they had been closed, and somehow, he was there. She felt rather than saw his presence, behind the curtain, his scarred face with eyes that stared directly into her own.

She held his gaze while Harry thrust inside of her, his cock pushing deep into her, and she was surprised to find that he slid into her easily when Sandor looked at her. Her nails dug into his back, causing him to arch in a way that heightened his efforts. She held Sandor’s gaze until she felt something akin to pleasure building in her, deep inside. Sansa imagined it was him inside of her now, though Harry did not quiet stretch her the way Sandor did. She held his stare nonetheless, his dark eyes alone bringing her closer and closer. She moaned and spread her legs further, her hands going to her husband’s bottom and pulling him in. Sandor’s hand went to the pommel of his sword, gripped at the handle. He still looked at her with hooded eyes, his expression unreadable. Sansa looked at his scars and imagined she could feel them, his cruel mouth, his fist about the pommel of his sword, his cock pounding into her now. She wondered how she looked to him now, her thighs splayed, moans spilling from her lips. Some demon within wondered if maybe he even liked it.

She arched her back, letting the pleasure spread through her, her tummy, her legs, her chest awash with the warmth. Harry followed soon after, spilling his seed inside of her with disjointed movements. He was gasping above her, face smiling. “That was amazing,” he panted. Sansa smiled back at him, pushing him off of her delicately and going to cover her nakedness with the coverlet. The pleasure was gone as soon as it had arrived, a wave of guilt lodged in its place. She closed her eyes as if to sleep, listening to the footsteps as they exited the chambers, willing herself not to shed any tears.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The maid was carrying a tray of steaming soup and vegetables with a loaf of hot bread when Sansa spotted her in the corridor. She knew where she would be taking the food, so she approached the young girl with some urgency. The maid looked up at her with brown eyes rounded in surprise when Sansa reached for the tray.

“I can take it from here,” she said.

Since he was no longer the Lord Protector of the Eyrie, Littlefinger was now housed in another, lower chamber in the Tower of the Protector. _Although imprisoned would be the better word._ Two of Bronze Yohn’s men were stationed at the chamber doors, leering at her and sharing a smirk together. _Corbray’s mouth is as big as the dark hole in his chest where his heart should be,_ she thought, knowing he must have told half the castle about her night with her husband. “M’lady,” one of them said, an older knight with a scruffy beard. “You should not be doing a servant’s work.”

“May I speak with Lord Baelish for a moment?” Sansa asked.

The two men looked at one another. The other man spoke, another older man with a weathered face and deep set eyes. “We’ve orders he mustn’t have any visitors, m’lady. Sorry.”

“Who’s orders are those, if I may?”

“Lord Yohn Royce, m’lady,” the one with the beard said.

Sansa considered them. “As Lady of the Vale,” she started, “My authority outranks that of the Lord Yohn Royce. Now stand aside or neither one of you is like to see a single copper for your day’s work.”

To her pleasant surprise, both men moved aside, although rather reluctantly. One of them spoke again on her way in. “Do be quick about it, if you can, m’lady.” She decided against a retort and let them close the door behind her.

Petyr Baelish stood with his back turned, staring out of the window to where the knights and men-at-arms were at their practice in the inner ward. He wore a black doublet with grey sleeves, the morning sun cast a silhouette of his narrow features. The chamber was not much smaller than the Lord Protector’s solar with ample room for a fireplace and a smaller desk that was now oddly bare of scrolls and parchment. She set the tray down there. “I’ve brought you your meal,” she said.

When she turned she saw how his vibrant green eyes gazed at her as they reflected in the sunlight, the small patch of grey hair at his temples appearing white. Sansa waited for him to say something. 

“You may have sealed my doom,” he began, “or saved my life.” He walked towards her slowly, and her mind’s eye quickly flashed to the day he had nearly raped her in his solar. She tried to shake the thought away, pulling herself back to the little time at hand. 

“Let us hope I’ve saved it,” she replied. “I don’t know whether you have heard but northern banners have been seen riding south.” She tried to remember the names. “Manderly, Stout, Hornwood, Dustin, Umber, all Bolton’s men, from what I recall.”

His pointy little beard tilted with his smirk. “And no Bolton banners, I take it? How strange.”

But Sansa understood that look. _It is not strange at all._ “House Umber and White Harbor were loyal to Robb. I think they will want to do more than just pay their respects.”

Petyr was close to her now, only a few palms widths between them. He lifted a hand to her cheek, and then let it fall. “Indeed they will, just as I had promised you. How will you meet them?”

She looked at him, confused for a moment. _I thought you would tell me how to approach them,_ she thought, but then realized he was testing her. 

“I won’t,” she stated. “The Lord Protector will meet them and hear their avowals.”

A smile unfurled on his thin lips. “That way they will do all your work of appealing to your husband for you. Always keep your hands clean, remember?” He closed what little distance was left between them, the backs of her thighs brushing against the desk. His hands went to her waist, her hair. “You could have listened to me, in the solar. You could have vouched for me, told the lords what a loving father I was,” his lips kissed her neck, the pointy beard prickling her skin. Her heart began to pound. “Instead you sacrifice my pawn to save my life.” His green eyes came up to meet hers, minty breath wafting across her face. “Do you know how hard that makes me?” 

That was more than evident where his hips pressed against her waist. He caught her mouth with his, kissing her with such a force that she had never felt him kiss her before. She struggled feebly against him, feeling her hands beginning to shake with fear. “You are not angry I killed your catspaw?” she asked after pulling her lips away for long enough. 

“On the contrary. I am _very_ impressed.” He flashed her a smile. “The man’s time had come. Especially after that slight against you. I would have sent him to his death one way or another.”

_It was more than just a petty slight,_ she thought angrily. “I must go. The guards did not give me much time.”

He held her fast when she made to move. “And if this should be the last time I hold you near?”

Tully blue eyes met his gaze. She placed a chaste kiss on his lips. “Then may the Seven judge you righteously, Petyr Baelish.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The time had nearly come for the trial to take place. Only a few lords and ladies were permitted to view the skirmish in the Main Hall. The Lord’s Declarant had not arrived as of yet, but Lord Graffton and Lord Coldwater had already taken their seats around the open space, as well the fat Septon of the Gates of the Moon, Septon Grinwald. Sansa eyed them from behind a pillar, then advanced to one of the side quarters where the fighters themselves would be preparing for the trial. 

It did not take long to find him. Two young squires tended to him where he was seated on a bench. If he stood he would be too tall for the boys to fasten his pauldrons. Upon seeing her, however, Sandor Clegane barked a command for the boys to leave, standing to his great height and walking over to retrieve his gauntlets. They scurried past her, murmuring their ‘Milady’s on their way out.

Once they were alone, Sansa was first to speak. “I came here to seek your forgiveness,” she ventured, “for what happened the night of my wedding… for what all but happened last night.”

“Save your apologies, girl,” he rasped, not bothering to look at her. “The only one who’s going to be sorry is that Corbray fucker.”

Sansa went over to the table where his belts and weapons were laid out, seeking his face. “I did not intend for you to risk your life like this.” _And for my honor, no less._

“What else is a dog good for?” he grated, pulling at the gauntlet on his right arm. Her hand went there, stilling his movements.

“You are not a dog,” she said.

He pushed her hand away, not ungently. “Enough, little bird. I like dogs, remember?” She did, remembered the tale well, even. The tale of the three dogs in the yellow of autumn grass that had sacrificed their lives to save their master from the lioness who threatened him. The cold steel of a gauntleted finger went under her chin, tilting her head up to meet his hard eyes. They searched her face, and he seemed he was about to say something. Sansa waited, but then twisted her face quickly from him when the door swung open, a man-at-arms looking in to announce the fight soon to begin. 

“Best of luck to you,” said Sansa Stark as she left to join the others.

The hall had been filled to capacity when she reentered it. The lords of the Vale were a proud folk, so when an event such as this occurred nearly every one of them were invited so as not to lay offense at anyone’s door. There were mostly men there and very few ladies, their proper place being far away from masculine feats such as trials by combat. Puffed up, bearded faces studied her as she made her way to the dais that had been lifted for the Lord Protector. Her gown was black as a raven’s wing, a short train sliding over the marble floor. It was important they see she still mourned the death of her cousin. Harry stood to offer his hand to her as she climbed the steps to the dais, and she took a seat to his right. 

Bronze Yohn was the only one of the Lord’s Declarant who opted to stand instead of sit, his stature towering over most of the men in the hall. His beard and mustache was a dash of white among a crowd of brown and blonde haired men. He raised a hand to gesture at some of his men, and they promptly escorted Petyr Baelish to the front of the hall. Sansa’s hands went to grip the armrests of her chair. Even with hands shackled before him, the man exuded confidence.

The heavy-set Septon Gringwald did not bother to stand when his voice sounded around the hall, causing the chatter to cease. “Lords and ladies, we gather here to witness the Seven lay judgment upon the accused Lord Petyr Baelish of Harrenhall, by Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone, for the murder of our late Lord Robert Arryn.” The crowd of people made way for the champions as they entered the wide space set for them in the center of the hall. They both wore the silver steel of the Winged Guard, bereft of the sky-blue capes that would only slow them down in the fight. “May the Warrior give strength to the sword that is true, and may the Father judge righteously him who is false.” The men faced one another, hands wrapped around the grips of their swords ready to draw at a moment’s notice, nothing but five or six paces of cream-colored marble between them. Lyn Corbray had tied his shoulder length brown hair at the nape of his neck, the tail spilling out behind him from beneath his helm. Bronze Yohn stood off to the side, his hands behind his back and his eyes staring at Harry from under his bushy eyebrows. Sansa quickly realized they were all looking to Harry.

She turned to him. “They await your command to begin, my lord,” she whispered.

The Lord Protector quickly recovered himself. “Let the fight commence!”

The word ‘commence’ had hardly reached the end of his tongue before both warriors drew their swords from their scabbards in a flash of steel. Blades met with a ringing clash as both men drove hard into one another, Corbray using his speed and agility while Clegane utilized his strength and mass. Standing over a foot taller than the catspaw, Sandor’s blade aimed low, meeting steel with every blow. He managed one hard thrust with his shield on the parry that sent Corbray reeling into the audience. Clegane moved away, recovering. The knight was quick to salvage himself, diving towards Clegane in whipping and slashing thrusts, faster than any man Sansa had ever seen.

She was on the edge of her seat, people shouting pointers and directions to Lyn from all around her. Bronze Yohn paced the floor, his eyes never leaving the two men that attacked each other. Ser Lyn Corbray was a practiced swordsman. She remembered how he had bested Ser Owen with tourney swords in the yard one day, a man who was larger than him. His head had bled from beneath his helm, and she knew that had they fought with real swords Lyn would have killed him easily. But she had witnessed the Hound accomplish greater feats than that. The scarred man had successfully prevented his monstrous brother from killing the handsome Ser Loras Tyrell at the Hand’s Tourney in King’s Landing. _But now his brother is dead._ Petyr had told her how the Red Viper had poisoned the elder Clegane when the charges of his sister’s murder were laid at his feet, and that Cersei had sent Gregor Clegane’s head to Dorne for reparations. She remembered how much Sandor had wanted to kill him. _But even that was taken away from him._

A grizzly roar snapped her back to the trial at hand. Sandor had once again managed to throw the smaller man off balance, the catspaw reeling back as loud gasps and shouts rang through the crowds. Ser Lyn took to goading his opponent. 

“Hear how this animal barks with rage! He is nothing but a Lannister dog after all.”

Sword and shield lifted at the ready, Sandor waited for his opponent to recover himself, unaffected by his words. 

The knight righted himself, made to strike from the left but cutting back at the last instant. A deception. A slash of his sword moved unforeseen, but only managing to glance across Sandor’s tasset, near where the old wound on his leg lay. Sandor had managed to sidestep the bulk of the impact, but Corbray would not relent, attacking with lithe movements lower still at the vulnerable niches of his armor. Sandor parried every thrust, quick for a man his size but visibly on the defensive.

The palms of her hands had slickened the ends of the armrest with sweat, but Sansa found she could not loosen her grip on the carved wood. A feeling she was being watched crept over her. She scanned the Main Hall, finding some leering eyes that were not uncommon, but those were not the ones that drew her attention. _No, it is him._ Petyr Baelish stared at her from below the dais, seemingly trying to gauge her reactions. _Yes, I want the champion of your cause to win_ , she said inwardly, _but not for the reasons you think._ She looked away from him and back to the fight, wishing desperately to join her voice to the shouts of support.

Ser Lyn Corbray pulled back and, after dodging a deadly swing of Clegane’s sword, came up from beneath the large man to stab up and under his helm in a strike that would have impaled her lover through the skull. It would have, had it not been for the shield that met the blade on its way up, pushing outward with a raw power that caused the catspaw to wobble on his heels. 

Sandor saw his chance then, and Sansa stood to her feet when the warrior leapt at his opponent, driving a vicious blow onto the man’s shield, sending him reeling, tripping, crashing onto the marble with a loud clangor that she imagined had cracked the stone. Sandor did not hesitate for a single heartbeat before stabbing Ser Lyn Corbray straight through the neck, red blood spurting like from a fountain onto the white marble, the whole hall falling into a deathly silence before shouts and screams rang through almost at once. A couple of servants dragged the knight’s body away from the scene, his life’s blood leaving a ghastly trail in his wake. Bronze Yohn stood still as a statue.

“I must give the man credit where credit is due,” said Harry beside her, only just realizing he had stood to see as well. “He is a good fighter.”

_The best fighter._ Sansa stared as the champion removed his helm and went to kneel before the dais, before her. Their gazes locked for an instant before he turned to Harry. 

“Well fought,” Lord Harrold Hardyng said to Sandor, then to the others, “It seems the Gods have judged the Lord of Harrenhall to be innocent after all. From henceforth, I proclaim him a free man in the Vale. In addition,” Harry went on, and Sansa looked at him curiously, “due to his exceptional knowledge and prowess with my province’s finances, I have allowed Lord Baelish to assume a position of councilor here at the Gates of the Moon if he would graciously accept.” _He must have heeded Lord Belmore’s support at the meeting,_ Sansa thought.

A guard went to unshackle Littlefinger, the man with the Mockingbird brooch rubbing at his wrists. “I thank you, my lord, and I accept your offer with my utmost gratitude” he said to Harry. Sansa watched as he walked bravely over to where Bronze Yohn had remained frozen where he stood, stepping over the trail of blood. “So the Gods have judged it,” Petyr Baelish repeated. “Let that be the first and last drop of blood that is spilt over this enmity of ours, my lord.” He extended his hand to the head of House Royce. The Hall had quieted considerably, all awaiting Bronze Yohn’s answer. 

An almost collective sigh of relief was loosed when the lords finally grasped hands, but Sansa was not paying attention. Instead she found her gaze fixed on Sandor Clegane where still he knelt, his eyes ravenous on her and his chest still heaving from his exertion. Sansa felt her heartbeat quicken, a heat pool at her core. His damp, black hair was swept back from his face, the ragged scars gleaming with sweat. He was looking at her the way he had looked at her when she climbed her featherbed in Aunt Lysa’s fine robe, when he went to kiss her between her legs, when he stared at her as though transfixed during her consummation – like the Hound had looked at her, with carnivorous eyes that bit so deep and hard they nearly consumed her entirely.


	13. Chapter 13

A spoon of honey, a drop of pennyroyal, tansy, mint, and wormwood. That was all it took to make this rancid concoction known throughout the Vale as moon tea. When the steam was inhaled it left a tingling sensation in her nostrils, and when the liquid went to her tongue it tasted like rust on an old needle. Sansa made a face.

“Really? What did you expect?” Mya said from above her. The two of them were in the common room of the Maiden Tower before the midday meals, Sansa supposedly attending to her needlework while she casually sipped some tea that she was to pretend was not at all what it really was. _If these northern lords mean to do what I expect they will, this is no proper time for a pregnancy._ She willed herself to take another sip.

“That’s right, you better drink it,” Mya said, then with a low voice, “You don’t know the hell I went through to steal this from Myranda. That woman’s got all these different vials and bottles and potions you’d think she was a maester herself.”

Luckily Mya had stolen enough to last her a month or two, though she did not know how she would like to continue drinking the nasty tea. “It’s disgusting,” Sansa said after forcing down another gulp.

“It’s the tansy. You have to drink it all,” Mya advised. “Maybe add a sugar cube to it?”

Sansa gave the raven-haired woman a doubtful look. “There isn’t enough sugar in Westeros.” She considered her friend for a moment, her leather jerkin tied at the breast by scratchy laces. “Have you ever tried it?”

Mya took a seat across from her, looking out of place in her roughspun riding breeches among the other ladies-in-waiting scattered throughout the room. “Yes, when I was fucking Mychel. Didn’t want a bastard. A bastard with a bastard, imagine that.” Her round blue eyes went to look at Sansa’s hands where they cupped the mug. “No child of yours would be a bastard, though. Why take it?”

Her reflection was in the murky brown water. “I don’t think I am yet ready to have a child.” _It isn’t safe, not while the Lannisters still rule and call for my head._ “But one day I will.”

“What else are you going to do? Needlework? Just have a baby, then we’ll all have something to look forward to around here. This castle has become so dull after the trial.” She stretched her legs out, leaning back in the chair.

This marked the third day since the trial had taken place. There was a bier lifted for Lyn Corbray in the Sept that was removed the other day and buried just this morning. Sansa was still wearing her ebony gown, though she mourned not at all for the catspaw. _There might have been a time, once, where I would have prayed for him. Yes, even him._ But that time, and that girl, was long gone. She had learned a lesson in the game, and with that lesson she had orchestrated a man’s death for the first time.

She felt no joy in that fact, but neither did she feel any guilt. 

Sansa was more concerned with how Sandor Clegane was coping through the chaos. _‘Killing is the sweetest thing there is,’_ he had once told her, and in his eyes she had seen the bloodlust and savagery, an essence of the Hound that remained in him still. She felt a tightness in her chest.

It was true that to Mya the castle had become a far duller place, but for Sansa the quiet was a time for some reprieve. The lords and ladies who had visited the Vale were finally trickling out to their homesteads, leaving the halls and wards less congested than they were for the past few weeks. They had witnessed a tourney, a wedding, and a couple of funerals, enough to last them a lifetime of story-telling. _But more will be coming,_ she remembered. She wondered what these northmen would witness next. A member of their party had ridden ahead of them and up to the gatehouse to announce their arrival, their banners spotted not far along the High Road. Soon she would be called to receive their new guests, with her auburn hair and Tully blue eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Lord Protector’s solar proved too small for all parties called to attention, which was shocking seeing as how it was the largest private solar in the castle. Trestle tables were arranged in the Main Hall to welcome the guests to speak privately with the Lord Protector and Lords Declarant. Sansa was being escorted by Brienne to the hall, dressed in black still. 

“What will you say to them?” the tall woman asked before pulling open the large oaken door.

“Nothing until I’ve heard what they have to say,” Sansa replied, feeling slightly uneasy.

When she entered the hall, her eyes were drawn directly to a young girl with bright green hair standing behind a chair in which a stout, grey-haired man was seated, his armor engraved with twists and turns meant to look like… _seaweed?_ Sansa guessed he was a bannerman of House Manderly. The girl, however, looked wholly out of place in the hall full of stern and proud lords. Sansa drew her gaze from her, going instead to find Petyr’s as he stood to announce her.

“Here she is,” he said, his green eyes sparkling, “Sansa Stark, now Sansa Hardyng, Lady of the Vale.”

The guests shifted to stand in respect, but Sansa raised a hand. “Please, sit. You must be weary from your journey.” She went to take a vacant seat beside Harry. A servant came to quickly pour her a goblet of wine. There were knights and guards in the hall, some she recognized and some she did not. Ser Lothor Brune was stationed under an ancient tapestry. _Petyr has found a replacement._ But she knew Ser Lothor would never serve as a catspaw. It was too obvious. Brienne was there, as well as Sandor Clegane, standing near the walls and out of sight.

Petyr remained on his feet to make introductions. “My lady, may I present to you Ser Marlon Manderly, Commander of the White Harbor Garrison at New Castle,” he gestured to the grey-haired man with the engraved armor. “He’s brought along with him Lord Wyman’s granddaughter, Wylla.”

“Tried to stop her, I did,” the large man gruffed. “She’s a stubborn one, she is. Couldn’t resist meeting the Stark girl.” He pinched the girl’s cheek behind him, and she colored a bit. “Very fond of the tales of yore, this one. Go on, tell them about the Wolf’s Den.”

Wylla’s gaze met Sansa Stark’s, a subtle determination in her voice as she recited the tale. “My lady, A thousand years before the Conquest,” she began in a girlish voice, “oaths were sworn in the Wolf’s Den before the old gods and the new. When we were sore beset and friendless, the wolves took us in and nourished and protected us. White Harbor is built upon the land they gave us, and in return we swore that we would always be their men. Stark men.”

The hairs on the skin of her arms were raised when the girl spoke. “You hear that,” Ser Marlon said, looking back to Sansa. “Very loyal, this girl.” He gave her a knowing look under his grey brows. “We were sorely saddened to hear of the treachery done to your mother and brother. The injustice committed against your father. Lord Manderly could not visit himself, as he is busy… _entertaining_ Roose Bolton at Winterfell.”

“I thank you for your words and for visiting here in person to convey them,” she responded courteously. 

“I, too, wish to convey my respects,” said another man at the opposite end of the table, “On behalf of Lord Hothor Umber, joint castellan of Last Hearth.” He was a skinny man with shaggy, brown hair and round, brown eyes. 

“This,” Petyr said, “Is Ser Ellis Ridger, a bannerman of Lord Umber. We have with us as well Ser Ronnel Stout, who rides for the Lady Cerywn and her vassal, Lord Harwood Stout.” Ser Ronnel nodded to Sansa with a deep frown on his lined face. He looked to be nearing fifty years of age. “And Sergeant Beron, who has traveled from Winterfell itself at the behest of Lady Barbrey Dustin of Barrowtown, as well as the natural son of the late Lord Halys Hornwood of Deepwood Mott, Larence Snow.”

“You have travelled from so far?” Bronze Yohn spoke up suddenly, seated not far form the center of the trestle table. 

“Yes, my lord,” the young man answered, dragging his eyes away from Sansa. He looked to be about the same age as her, with curly black hair that fell to just above his ears. “I was freed from captivity when King Stannis recaptured Deepwood Mott from the Greyjoys. I was sent by my fellow Hornwood men and King Stannis himself.”

“Pray tell us,” said Bronze Yohn, “how does Stannis fare north of Winterfell?” He neglected to call him _King_ Stannis. Sansa snuck a glance at Littlefinger, who had resumed his place at the end of the trestle table. He appeared to be listening intently to the conversation at hand.

“My lord, King Stannis’ army had suffered tremendous losses on the trek south from the Wall, but Lord Mors Umber’s forces have rejuvenated his host considerably. He continues his march on Winterfell.”

“Stannis Baratheon had no sympathy for the King in the North,” the white-bearded Lord of Runestone said. “Why, then, has he sent you here?”

“My lord, I’ve come to relay a message to the Lord Protector of the Vale.” When the bastard turned to face Harry, Sansa’s heart began to race. “No more than three thousand men. That is all it would take to join King Stannis’ force to recapture Winterfell for your new wife and avenge her family, and be granted titles and lands in the North to do with as you please once Stannis is seated on the Iron Throne.”

The air was thick with unease. “Do those titles include Warden of the North?” Harry asked.

“Why so little men?” Lady Waynwood interrupted before anyone could answer the Lord Protector. Sansa had almost forgotten the other Lord’s presence there so quiet had they all been.

“Bolton is being cornered, and Winterfell is at its most vulnerable,” Ser Marlon spoke, his slight double chin quivering. “He’s sent my cousin’s men out to meet Stannis but they will turn, they will.” 

“Yes, they will. Robb Stark was our king,” Wylla declared with a hand on Marlon’s shoulder. “He was brave and noble and that Roose Bolton ran a dagger through his heart-” Ser Marlon hushed her insistently. Sansa felt her chest grow tight, a heat flood to her face.

“It is as well the Hornwood men within the castle walls have no love for the Boltons,” said Larence Snow. “They have not forgotten how Ramsay Bolton treated the Lady Donella at Hornwood.”

“What happened to her?” Sansa asked before she could stop herself. She recalled that Ramsay Bolton was now married to Arya, though she was doubtful the girl was truly her sister after what Sandor had told her. 

“My lady, he locked her in a tower and left her to starve. I assure you, though, your sister is alive and safe in King Stannis’ party as we speak. She was rescued from the Bolton’s grasp by Theon Greyjoy.”

Sansa reeled at that. “Theon Greyjoy killed my brothers-”

“Frey’s litter the halls of Winterfell,” Sergeant Beron said loudly. “My Lady Dustin’s men were slain at the Red Wedding. The north remembers.”

“Aye, the north remembers, too, how they murdered the Smalljon at the Twins,” Ser Ridger proclaimed. “House Umber bears no love for the Boltons. The north remembers.”

“The north remembers,” repeated Ser Ronnel Stout, his arms of russet and gold on his doublet. “House Cerwyn remembers the murder of Lord Cley Cerwyn at the Sack of Winterfell-”

Lord Nestor Royce raised a hand to quiet the knights. “There were many a murder at the hands of both Freys and Boltons alike. My brother often urged the Lady Lysa to join the Vale’s forces to Robb Stark’s cause.” He moved to stand, and all others stood as well. “We have much to discuss, it seems.” He waved to the men-at-arms that lined the walls. “See to it our guests are given comfortable quarters in the Tower of the Lord Protector. Sers, we welcome you to the Gates of the Moon. We will meet to discuss things further during supper.”

Sansa rose along with the rest, glad for some time to gather her thoughts that now ran wild in her mind. _Only three thousand men? Is that truly all it would take?_ She turned to her husband. “I would like to take my mare riding for the afternoon,” she said.

Harry looked down at her with his dark blue eyes as if noticing her for the first time. “Ah, yes. Don’t go alone.” With that, he turned his attentions to Ser Marlon Manderly who approached him now. Dark skirts went to where the guards stood along the walls of the Main Hall. Sandor Clegane stood with one gauntleted hand rested on the pommel of his longsword. Sansa bravely met his grey eyes. The Maid of Tarth stood not five paces away near some pottery.

“Clegane, Brienne. Have my saddle readied, please,” she ordered. The two of them looked at one another, faces scarred and gruesome, then at her. “Yes, the two of you. I will need a guard if I am to ride out at this hour. Wait for me there.” 

“As you say, my lady,” Sandor rasped.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Once in her riding skirts and cloak, leather riding boots laced up to her knees and soft, leather gloves covering her delicate hands, Sansa crossed the outer ward to approach the stables. The ward had quieted down significantly so close to suppertime, the sun still a few hours away from setting. Brienne was already mounted upon her chestnut bay. She found her grey mare saddled and waiting for her, Sandor standing by. He offered one of his rough hands when she neared, and she took hold of it while she climbed atop her mount. His hand felt warm and steady. Ever since the trial, Sansa had very little opportunities to take him aside for some private conversation. He was always either indisposed on his guardship duties with Baelish, or she was constantly being called upon to tend to responsibilities in the castle, seeing lords and ladies off as they left to go to their homes.

She could scarcely risk to be seen alone with him either.

“Where do we ride to?” Brienne called.

“Past the fences and into the glen,” Sansa responded. They waited as Sandor went to his black destrier, its fur shining almost silver in the waning sunlight. Sansa worried the warhorse would jerk its head violently, but when the tall man smoothed his hand over its neck it was as if some spell had overcome the beast. The mount waited patiently as Sandor hefted his weight onto its back. He spurred the warhorse to a canter, Sansa and Brienne following suit. 

They rode out to the fenced enclosure where the horses and mules grazed, now empty of any beasts. Further out there rested the dense birchwood forrest, and far beyond that were the snowcapped Mountains of the Moon, a jagged wall of white against black rock that cast long shadows on the valleys of the Vale. Sansa imagined the land past that wall, to the castle of White Harbor, the long and winding rivers of the White Knife, and even further still to Winterfell. _Boltons and Freys lay siege to my home,_ she contemplated, _And that will soon come to an end._ Petyr Baelish had the coin, and the bloodthirsty Bronze Yohn had more than enough willing men to send to war. Combined with House Umber and Manderly, Roose Bolton would do better to surrender himself now rather than later.

“We’ve ridden far enough,” Sandor rasped, turning his mount to block the path of her mare. She came to a rough halt. 

“Hey! Careful,” Brienne warned, glaring at Sandor.

“She means to ride to Winterfell on her own, seems like,” he grated towards Brienne. 

“Obviously not,” answered Brienne, dismounting. “She means to speak with us.” The woman warrior led her horse to graze in the thick grass.

They spoke about her as though she were not even present. “I am right here, and yes, Brienne, I do mean to speak with you.” She moved to dismount, but Sandor was at her side instantly, guiding her down gently. “Thank you,” she said, almost under her breath. She eyed a birchwood log a few paces away. Lifting her skirts, she sat down on the lumpy wood, waited for her company to follow. Sandor lowered himself on a rock while Brienne opted to stand, leaning against a narrow tree. 

“You were both there, in the Main Hall,” Sansa began. “They mean to capture Winterfell in my name. Avenge my family.”

“They make a convincing argument,” Sandor said. “One would almost think Stannis on the winning side.”

“You don’t believe them, then?” Brienne asked.

“The main strength of the Umber force was wiped out at the Red Wedding. I saw the bodies with my own eyes,” he rasped. “They wouldn’t have ridden all this way if they weren’t desperate.”

“They only asked for three thousand men,” Brienne argued, “and you heard the men, the Hornwoods have no love for the Freys and Manderly’s men will turn.”

“Desperate or no,” Sansa interjected, “I believe we are more likely to march than not. I’ve called you both here to ask you,” she hesitated, looking out past the deep shadows through the thick forest.

“Ask us what, my lady?” Brienne said.

Sansa knew the answer before she even asked. “Will you ride with me?”

“Of course we w-” But Brienne was cut off. “Where in seven hells do you think you’ll be riding to?”

Sansa stared at him, confusion flooding her senses. “To Winterfell, of course.”

He barked a laugh. “The little bird means to ride to war.” Sansa flushed at the use of the moniker in front of Brienne, who was staring incredulously at Sandor as well. He continued. “You’ll stay here where it’s safe until the castle is captured for you.”

Sansa stood to her feet. “Brienne, will you please leave us for a moment.” The freckle-faced woman frowned at them, the purple scars on her cheeks elongating. She nodded, and then went to where their mounts grazed. Once Sansa was certain she was out of earshot, she advanced on Sandor. He sat up, imposing even when seated.

“You told me you would see me find Winterfell,” Sansa exasperated.

“Aye, _after_ it’s been won. It’s too dangerous for you,” the scarred corner of his mouth twitched. “The winter is too harsh.”

“I am from the North, remember?” she retorted.

“That’s true enough,” he rasped, eyeing her. For a moment she thought he would reach for her. “But, young as you are, you’ve never even seen a winter, a _real_ winter, let alone a war.” 

_He has me there._ “You cannot expect me to stand by while men go to their potential deaths to avenge my family. While you go…” 

This time he did reach for her, his callused hand finding her delicate one. She looked down at where he held her, her heart beginning to pound in her rib cage. Slowly, ever so slowly, he brought her hand to his lips, kissed the skin. She felt the softness of his mouth, wishing desperately to take his face in her hands and have it meet her own. Sansa turned her hand, letting her fingers graze the rough stubble on his good cheek. “You cannot stop me,” she heard herself say, and Sandor’s hand went to hers where it caressed him, bringing her fingers to his lips, kissing the tips, biting- “Ow!”

She made to pull away, but Sandor held firm his grip on her hand and dragged her into his lap, his scars twisted in a ghastly grin. Sansa could not help but grin brightly back at him where he looked down at her now, cradled in his strong arms. But that smile faded almost as quickly as it had come. He spoke. “You’re almost as stubborn as your little wolf sister,” he rasped. “You’ll regret it once you feel the icy bite of the winter winds.”

“They cannot be worse than your bite,” she teased, rubbing her fingers. “I meant to ask you how you fared after the trial...” She looked down at her hands.

“Better than the other man.” 

“Clearly,” Sansa countered. “You just seemed… different, somehow, after the fight.”

“When I knelt before you, you mean.”

“Yes,” she admitted, remembering how he had looked at her, the heat it sent through her. 

“It’s called bloodlust, little bird,” he warned. “Haven’t felt that in years. Another reason you should stay far away from battle grounds.”

Her eyes met his grey ones, and she tried to summon some courage to speak truly. “That night… when you laid witness… I should have said something, called for another-”

Sandor shook his head, refusing to let her finish. “Better it was me and not some other bugger fondling himself in there.” One of his hands clenched into a fist near her arm. “I would have run that fucker through then and there, but I stayed my hand for your own good.”

Sansa assumed he meant Lyn Corbray. “Well, you did run him through after all.”

“You trapped him,” he rasped, “Littlefinger taught you well.”

It was Sansa’s turn to shake her head. “Corbray was his catspaw, and he was paying him in gold and children.” She shuddered. “I don’t want to be like Littlefinger.”

“You could never be like him,” Sandor assured, squeezing her ever so slightly.

She lowered her eyes again, and his gaze followed hers to her hands, then traveled up the sleeve of her arm, the swell of her breasts, the curve of her lips. It stopped there, unmoving for long moments that felt torturous beyond reason. Her hand found his scarred cheek, then went back to thread into his straight, black hair. “I will ride to Winterfell with you by my side. I feel safe with you…” She pulled him to her, finding no resistance when his lips found hers. They kissed her hungrily, drinking her in as though her kisses were finite and he searched in earnest for their end. Her instinct forced her to open for him, his lips slanting against hers, her grip in his hair tightening-

“Gods in heaven.” 

Sandor ripped his lips from hers, both of them turning quickly to find Brienne staring at them wide eyed. He stood abruptly, almost toppling Sansa into the grass but catching her before she fell. She smoothed out her skirts. “Tell _no one_ about this!” Sansa called to the straw-haired woman. She walked in the direction of the horses, willing her heart to calm its erratic palpitations from the terror of being caught by someone other than Brienne.

“I had always guessed it with him,” Brienne admitted curiously, “But never would I have guessed that you…, ah-my lady.” She turned to Sandor. “No offense meant, Clegane.”

“We must ride back to the castle,” Sansa announced. The sun had fallen behind the mountainside, dusk creeping over the open fields. Sandor was by her side, helping her onto her saddle again. She gave him a desperate look. His eyes were dark with regret, and she wished to grab hold of him and tell him how sorry she was for this curse between them, how her heart railed against her mind constantly, how she dreamed of him still. But before she could do any of this he had turned to his destrier, mounting it with ease.

“My lady, you cannot think I would tell a soul,” Brienne assured. “Your secret is safe with me.” From the look on Brienne’s face, Sansa thought the woman pitied her. _I am one to be pitied,_ she thought, _We both are. I have a husband, and Sandor Clegane is sworn to protect me, yet our love only puts us in danger._ The three of them rode in silence back to the castle, the night chill whipping across Sansa’s cheeks. Sandor flanked her on her left, Brienne on her right, the castle walls looming tall and dark up ahead. _Would that I would see Winterfell’s walls rising up before me again,_ she dreamed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s a straight shot up through the White Knife,” Ser Marlon Manderly spoke after swallowing a mouthful of chicken. “Send a dozen barges packed with knights, warhorses, and siege engines, and the castle is ours, it is.”

“We’ll need ships, if we are to transport three thousand men to your gates.”

The fat man smiled at Bronze Yohn. He wore a jerkin of turquoise blue with the likeness of a merman embroidered upon his breast. “Think nothing of it, my lord, I’ve got twenty-three war galleys sitting pretty in the inner harbor, they are, ripe for the stormy seas. Nay, my lord, you need only worry about paying your men’s wages, we’ll handle the rest.”

“Wages will hardly be an issue…” Littlefinger began. Sansa listened quietly while the men discussed the options, cutting through the steaming chicken on her plate and taking a bite from it. When she looked up from her plate, she noticed the curly-haired bastard, Larence Snow, staring at her. He had the decency to blush and look away. There was a flash of bright green beside her suddenly.

“He can’t take his eyes off you, poor thing,” Wylla said, taking a seat beside Sansa. “I don’t blame him. You are as beautiful as the tales have told. But you don’t have the Stark look.”

Sansa smiled at the girl. “Thank you. I took after my mother.” She considered the girl beside her. “You are brave, to insist on traveling this far to see me.”

Wylla placed her hand on Sansa’s shoulder. “My lady, my house is sworn to yours. We are practically cousins.” She turned her face to her plate then, chewed her food, swallowed. “Tell me about Winterfell,” she said. “I’ve never been there. What’s it look like?”

“Well.” Sansa thought, not knowing where to begin. “It is built around an ancient godswood ten thousand years old and above natural hot springs.” Sansa recalled those times when her brother Robb would swim in the ponds with Jon and Theon, popping out from under large red leaves that fell from the weirwood overhead, pretending to be some sea creatures from the depths. They would always try to scare her and Jeyne Poole that way. “The hot springs are funneled through a heating system in the castle walls so it remains warm even in the winter.” _Warm and safe. My childhood home._

“What ingenuity,” Wylla commented. “What else is there?”

Sansa glanced at the girl. “Why, everything you would find in any other castle,” she said humbly. A memory came to her from her time in the Eyrie, when she built a castle of snow in the likeness of Winterfell. Sweetrobin had knocked down one of it walls with his grotesque doll. In her childish rage she had torn the head from the toy and mounted in on a stick outside the snowy walls. She drew herself from her reverie. “There is a glass garden where are grown fruits and vegetables and flowers. There is also the broken tower no one has bothered to rebuild, the tallest watchtower in the castle. It was struck by lightening many years ago.”

“I heard about the cemeteries, how frightening they can be.”

“Oh, we have a crypt, and it can be quite so,” Sansa said after swallowing a bite of her meal. “But it can be peaceful in some ways. There is a statue there chiseled in the likeness of my aunt Lyanna, when she was alive.” She recalled the beautiful and sad face made of stone, how her heart ached whenever she heard the tale- 

A loud _bang_ made her jump. “She’s real!” called Wylla, after smacking her hand down on the table. Sansa looked across the trestle table to where Ser Marlon Manderly laughed, his double chin shaking with mirth. “Well done, my girl.”

Suddenly there was a parchment in the green-haired girl’s hand. She laid it out on the table for Sansa to see. On it was drawn a layout of Winterfell’s grounds with the names of the gates and the towers and all of the little details that went with them. The glass gardens were there, as well as the broken watchtower and the crypts. “You were testing me, I see,” Sansa smiled. “Clever.”

“Thank you, my lady,” said Wylla with a bright grin. “I did my studies.”

“Why don’t you tell me about White Harbor,” Sansa offered, spooning a mouthful of peas into her mouth. As the minutes waned and the platters were replaced, Wylla recounted numerous stories from her youth and from tales of old. New Castle was the seat of House Manderly, the primary trading port of the North. The old fortress named The Wolf’s Den the girl had spoken of earlier was now a prison that contained a godswood within its walls. Sansa tried to hold on to every detail, but above the chatter of the men and noises of conversations nearby it was difficult to focus. From what she could gather, Bronze Yohn was seriously considering joining his forces to that of Stannis Baratheon, and Littlefinger would offer to pay his men’s wages, a gift to the Lord’s Declarant after allowing him his comfortable years of service as the Lord Protector of the Vale. But Sansa knew it was more than just a gift. _Bronze Yohn would be in his debt._

A servant crossed the hall, but he was carrying neither platter nor pitcher. Instead he carried a scroll, the seal unbroken from where Sansa could tell. He walked past the guards, past Sandor Clegane where he stood sentinel, his eyes following the boy suspiciously as he went to the dais, where the Lord Protector was seated. He came around her high-backed chair, whispered something in Harry’s ear. Her husband took the parchment from the servant, and Sansa observed where he broke the seal.

The seal of King Tommen Baratheon. 

Sansa’s heart beat hard in her rib cage while Harry read the letter, fighting against her desire to rip the parchment from his hands and read the words herself. His handsome face was unreadable, dark blue eyes scanning the lines with furrowed brow. Bronze Yohn voiced her desires. “Don’t hide the news, my lord. I notice that seal. What does the Queen want?”

The table grew silent, all eyes looking to Lord Harrold Hardyng, waiting for a response. “The woman has gone mad. She means to send a sortie led by one Ser Robert Strong to enforce the arrest of Sansa Stark, or the Vale is named a traitor to the crown.” He laughed. “Has anyone ever heard of this Ser Robert Strong? What house is this?”

Something about that name made Sansa’s blood run cold. In the letter she had read in Littlefinger’s solar, Ser Robert Strong had championed Cersei Lannister in her trial by combat against the Faith Militant, and won.

“Strong? Never heard it in my life. A bastard name, mayhaps?” Ser Marlon proposed.

“It appears your arrival here was well timed, good sers,” Petyr Baelish said to their guests.

“How does one respond to a threat such as this?” Harry asked, open-endedly. 

“Is there any polite way to say, ‘fuck off’?” said Ser Marlon. Wylla giggled at that, along with the other sers who chuckled heartily. 

“Tell her she’s going to have to come here herself and ask politely!” Sergeant Beron called. More laughter.

“Better yet, let her know her men are like to be trampled by the mountain goats before they even reach the Bloody Gate!” Ser Marlon’s laugh was booming.

“I have an idea,” Sansa said boldly. She made sure all attentions were on her when she spoke. “Tell her… tell her that her troops will have to meet us at Winterfell’s gates.”

“Hear, hear!”


	14. Chapter 14

Across the yard and out towards the stables, Sansa walked with Myranda to the Gatehouse. Sansa had donned her riding skirts and boots, leather gloves warming her hands, while her friend wore a simple, grey woolen gown, the cloak held tight across her large bosom. Numerous soldiers and bannermen were scattered throughout the yard carrying large chests and sacks filled with armor and food and clothing. Bronze Yohn’s main force was stationed at Runestone, but the Gates of the Moon did not lack for soldiers eager to wet their swords in this new and exciting war. They loaded their packs onto the backs of theirs mounts and onto carts and carriages that awaited them at the gates. People were shouting orders to one another from across the yard, sending chickens and stray dogs scampering in different directions. The castle grounds were busier than Sansa had ever seen them, the morning air crisp and cool with the smell of Winter. 

Her breath turned to mist when she spoke. “I will miss this place, I think.”

“You most certainly will!” Randa replied. “Winter has hardly even touched us here. You’re like to freeze your tush off in the North. But then again, you _are_ Northern. I will never forgive you for keeping such a secret from me.”

“I’ve already given you a trunk load of gowns,” Sansa reminded her. “I believe that should more than make up for my pillow tax evasions.”

“They are very fine, but…” and Myranda touched her arm gently, stopping them. “You mustn’t go. The castle will be so boring without you, all the drama you’ve caused! A lady’s place is here, not out there amongst the dirt and filth and rowdy soldiers.”

Sansa smiled slightly at her, Myranda's cheeks round and pink from the cold. “You wish me to stay for your entertainment.”

“Why else? It isn’t as though I will miss how so much prettier you are than me or how you stole Harry away from me.”

Rolling her eyes, Sansa continued to walk towards the stables where Mya stood waiting near Sansa’s grey furred mare already saddled and ready for the long journey ahead. Some days prior, Ser Marlon Manderly had sent a raven for more war galleys to station themselves at the port of Runestone to take the Vale’s army to White Harbor by sea. But first, they would need to make the narrow and treacherous ride through the valleys and out past Ironoaks all the way to Runestone. Littlefinger had told her it would likely be a full day’s ride to the port.

“My Lady of the Vale,” Mya called, swinging some rope over her shoulder. “Your mount is ready. Just go quickly before we get all sappy.”

Sansa smiled at the raven-haired girl, going to pet her mare’s soft neck. “Thank you,” she said, “for all the times we’ve shared here.” Her heart was beginning to ache, looking into her friend’s large, blue eyes.

“ _You_ went through my things, I noticed,” Myranda scolded. 

Mya looked at her in a mixture of offended shock and disbelief. “How do you even know these things? I made sure to put everything back the way it was, I even drew a bloody map!”

“Who are you fucking now? You owe me. Is it Lothor Brune? I always knew it.”

“Gods, no! There’s no way I’m telling you,” Mya was making some effort not to look at Sansa, much to the latter’s gratitude. 

“Then I want my moon tea back-”

“This isn’t the proper time for this discussion,” Mya said through her teeth. “We’re seeing the Lady of the Vale off, are we not? Don’t ruin this.”

Sansa raised one brow at the girl. “I thought you did not want this to get sappy.”

The choppy-haired girl shook her head, grabbing Sansa’s horse by the reigns and guiding it out of the stables. “I’m so glad you’re leaving.”

“Liar,” Sansa retorted, as the three of them made their way on to the Gatehouse.

There were already wagons and mounted bannermen making their way out of the postern gate, riding ahead of the main bulk of the party. Some equipment was heavier than the rest, and many riders had gone out at first light to begin transporting the necessities through the passes. The skies were clear on this day, but the chill threatened snows not far off. A number of maids and cooks were selected to join the party, and Sansa noticed their skirts as they climbed atop the backs of wagons and waved their goodbyes to their friends and families. There were tears, but that was to be expected. The journey North would not be done in the matter of one day. _And there is no telling who will come back alive._

Near an outpost not far from the gate itself stood Brienne with her squire, Podrick, a boy of about the same age as Sansa who stood a head shorter than the tall woman. They had both donned their armor, Brienne still wearing the silver steel of the Winged Guard upon her breast and the sky blue cloak about her shoulders. She nodded toward the trio of women as they approached. 

“Good morrow, my ladies,” then to Sansa, “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she replied, stopping herself from asking where Sandor had gone. Sansa turned to her mare again, petting the soft fur and finding Mya standing off just a bit. Without a moment’s hesitation, she went and grabbed her friend by the arms of her scratchy tunic, pulling her in for an embrace that made her throat grow tight. Mya’s arms went around her, and then Sansa felt another pair of arms.

“I’m going to miss us!” Randa cried. 

Sansa laughed, trying to stop the tears that threatened to fall. “I’m going to miss you two very much.”

“Send us a raven from White Harbor,” Mya ordered. “Let us know you’re alive, alright?”

“I promise,” Sansa said.

Once mounted upon their horses, Sansa, Brienne, and Podrick waved goodbye to Mya and Myranda. Sansa committed Mya’s choppy black hair and round blue eyes to memory, as well as Myranda’s bright pink cheeks and long, springy hair. _My friends._ They, together with the Gates of the Moon, grew smaller and smaller the further out they travelled, and Sansa rode along, looking back until the dense forest of pine and spruce and birch trees obscured them from view entirely, leaving nothing but the narrow dirt road to Ironoaks.

Heart feeling heavy in her chest, Sansa turned to look to the road ahead. The crisp air of dawn still lingered in the forest, a thin layer of snow coating the grass where it grew untouched along the side of the road. She pulled her shawl tighter around her neck. Their horses bore single riders with light riding sacks, so in time they passed by many heavier, slower wagons, often having to snake their way past them by venturing into the wood. Some areas in the road were flat and vast, while others were so narrow only a single carriage could move through at a time. At some points they would climb out to a great cliff side overlooking deep and endless valleys of green and white, the trail winding itself along the mountainside. Sansa tried not to look down. _It is no wonder the Vale is believed to be impregnable._ Sansa recalled how often Sweetrobin had repeated that mantra, words his mother had once told him. _It may be impregnable to an army,_ she thought, _but these roads are roomy enough for one man, and sometimes one man is more dangerous than an entire army._

“You seem to be deep in thought, my lady,” said Brienne from her side. They had slowed their horses considerably as they descended a hill.

“I was thinking how much easier it would have been if the Boltons would only come to us,” Sansa japed. No one in the seven kingdoms would be so stupid to attack the Vale at the moment, though.

“Indeed it would be,” Brienne replied, “If only we could pull Winterfell some leagues south as well.”

She smiled a little at that. “That would be convenient at the moment, but I like it too much where it is.” _The Northern capital, my home, where Winter never truly sees its end._

“Did you see Sandor ride out this morning?” she finally asked after some time had passed.

“He went ahead with the northmen,” Brienne answered, then seemed to reconsider. “Sansa, if I may, how long has this… between you two-”

“It is difficult to know where or when, exactly,” she interrupted, fearful to have Brienne speak the words so clearly where anyone could hear. “There was a kiss,” she said in a low voice, “the night of the championship tourney.” _And another one long before that,_ though Sansa no longer knew whether their first kiss had been real or imagined. _He did not remember it…_

“I want to ask you some questions,” the woman knight began, “and I would like you to answer quickly before any other thought comes to your mind.”

Sansa looked at the woman with suspicion, then showed her a nod.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Yes,” Sansa answered.

“What color is your gown?"

“Blue."

“What are your house words?"

“Winter is Coming." _Wait, what are the words of House Hardyng?_

“Do you love him?”

“Yes.” The heat in her bosom overwhelmed her. She could hardly bear to look Brienne in the face.

“Then why did you marry another?”

Something in that question, in the simplicity of it, irked her immeasurably. It was not simple, not in the least. _Brienne, you foolish woman._ “I needed to secure myself an army, protection from the crown. I could not live in hiding forever. We women,” Sansa tried, ignoring that Brienne was not like other women, far from it, “We women must either be married or bear heirs to be given even a crumb of consideration in terms of politics. I had very little choice in the matter if I wanted to win back my home, but I made the decision-” She stopped herself midsentence, hearing the defensiveness in her voice. She did not wish to argue with Brienne.

“I understand now,” the straw-haired woman said. “You chose Winterfell over him. Even then,” she added, “You knew you could never marry him. I know how that feels – to love someone you cannot have…”

Hearing those words, the way the woman warrior summarized her entire predicament so concisely seemed to both clear her mind and tear her heart apart all at once. _I chose Winterfell, but does he not ride by my side even now? Did I truly lose him?_ Sansa tried not to follow where her thoughts led, and an hour or so had passed before the sun was impeded by a bright white overcast of clouds that threatened snow. She hoped they would arrive to Runestone before the bulk of the storm would strike. _But Runestone is still many hours from now, even by horse,_ she thought worriedly. The road had taken the caravan to a great height, the path and valleys obstructed by a ghostly mist. Sansa felt herself grow strangely nauseated, a familiar feeling she had had when first visiting the Eyrie.

Brienne’s skinny squire rode up next to her, giving her a concerned look. “My lady? You look pale.” He was chewing on something that made one side of his face look swollen.

“I believe it is the altitude,” she said, willing herself not to spill her morning meal.

With one hand holding the reigns of his horse, Podrick went to a small pouch that hung from his belt and pulled out what looked to be a small bundle of green leaves. He rolled them up nice and tight with his fingers and then guided his horse nearer to Sansa’s mare to extend the offering to her. “My lady,” he said, blushing slightly, “Chew on this.”

Sansa took it from his hand. “Are these Wayna leaves?” She guessed as much after sniffing them, recalling how they would often serve tea made with the foliage in the Eyrie. She also knew that to consume too much might give way to addiction.

“Don’t worry, my lady,” Podrick reassured, “Just hold it between your teeth near your cheek and bite down till the juices flow. Then after a half an hour or so you may spit it out. It helps with the nausea greatly.”

It had only been a few hours on the trail, and Sansa did not want to appear weak when she eventually caught up with Sandor further on. _He had said the roads would be too rough for me, but I will prove him wrong._ She put the roll in her mouth and bit down, bitter juices sliding along her tongue. “Thank you,” she said to Podrick.

“Of course, my lady. Please let me know if you need more.”

The young man continued to ride on her side, and Sansa considered him a bit too old to be a squire any longer. _Brienne cannot knight him,_ she thought, _so why does he choose to stay by her side?_ He kept giving her sidelong glances until finally she spoke through the Wayna leaves. “Is there something remiss?”

“N-no, my lady! Forgive me,” he stammered, turning a bright shade of red.

Sansa looked over her shoulder to where Brienne followed a few paces behind, then turned back to the squire. “How did you two come to meet?”

“I-ah…I followed her to Duskendale, my lady.”

“From King's Landing? Why?” Sansa faintly remembered her suspicion of the boy when she was a young girl, him being a Payne. _Cousin to the man who beheaded my father._ His presence here did not much help with the suspicion.

“My lady, don’t take this the wrong way,” he began, and Sansa fully prepared herself to take it the wrong way. “I was looking for you – b-but not for the reasons you think!” he added, noting the look on her face. “I thought if I found you, I would find Lord Tyrion. He was who I was really looking for.”

“But he isn’t here,” she stated.

He faced the road, and Sansa thought she read sadness on his features. “If there’s anything I’ve learned from Brienne, my lady, it is loyalty. She saved my life, and I don’t know whether Tyrion is even in the seven kingdoms at all. So, I’m her squire for as long as she’ll have me.”

“She saved my life, too,” Sansa said, feeling some pity for the young man. “Tyrion was… _is_ a gentle soul. I don’t believe all those rumors about him.” She could not imagine how the Imp had killed his own father on the privy and then went on to kill his uncle as well. He was kind and patient with her, even heeded her requests. _He was smart and resourceful as well._ Until his body was found somewhere in the world, she would not truly believe him dead. But she kept those thoughts to herself, seeing as how Podrick seemed to be deep within his own.

Her nausea had completely vanished, a heightened awareness lodged in its place. She removed the Wayna leaves from her mouth and dropped the clump in the dirt.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The midday sun was directly overhead when their party arrived at the gates of Ironoaks. The metal workings of the gate itself was crowned with the wheel with the broken spoke that was the Waynwood sigil. Some of Lady Waynwood’s bannermen met them at the gatehouse, helping them down from their horses and stationing their carriages and wagons in a nearby field. The castle was much smaller than the Gates of the Moon, nestled between a vast lake and the sea with tall mountain ranges all around that dwarfed the castle further. The atmosphere was homely, however, the commoners greeting them with bright smiles and courtesies as they walked through the market square and up to the castle walls. Their mounts were taken to be watered and fed in the stables. There was no moat like there was at the Gates, but Sansa could see the remnants of one long dried up and covered by tall, yellowed grasses at the threshold. _So this is where my husband served as ward,_ she thought. A servant directed her to the Main Hall, where most of the host was already settling to the midday meals. Some were even making to leave, having ridden out so much earlier than the others.

The Lady of the House herself was seated at a trestle table on the dais, having changed from her riding skirts to don a dark green gown on her slender frame. There was a vacant seat at her side, and Sansa supposed it was meant for her. Brienne and her squire had already left her side to assume some seats below the dais, the servants and maids snaking in and out of doorways, taking and replacing platters for the new visitors. Sansa went to the dais.

“May I?” she asked, and a servant went to pull out her chair immediately. 

“Of course, my dear,” Lady Waynwood said, looking up at her briefly from her soup.

Only when the scent of the warm, baked bread and steaming vegetable stew reached her nose did Sansa truly realize the extent of her hunger. She wanted to eat as quickly as possible, but refrained. _There is nothing ladylike about scarfing down your food,_ she thought, watching how Lady Anya took slow and delicate sips from her spoon.

“Eat, my lady,” the old woman suddenly spoke. “A half a day’s ride is no easy venture, and you may not have another meal until well past sundown if you mean to reach Runestone tonight.”

With hardly a second thought, Sansa went to her food, spooning a few mouthfuls of the stew before she spoke. 

“You have a very beautiful home, my lady. It is fortunate your castle is so near to the Gates,” she commented. Lady Waynwood would not be joining the rest of the party North, for obvious reasons.

“Yes, but an old crone such as I can hardly abide the ride any longer. It is worse when it snows in the passes. Rarely does a full morning go by without snow nowadays. The gods smile upon you, my lady.”

_Let us hope they keep smiling,_ she prayed. “Have you seen the northmen come through?”

“Indeed I have. You just missed them, in fact. My ward… well, your husband was with them. He is very curious to hear about the tales of battles being fought in the North.” Lady Anya shook her head. “Young men are always all too eager to go to war.”

“You disapprove?” Sansa asked.

“If I were as young as you, I would wait until next spring. Wars fought in the Winter never end well for either side. It’s all too much death for far too little gain.”

_All wars mean death,_ Sansa wanted to say. _And my home is not just some small gain._ Instead, she said, “I was too young to remember the last Winter. There is no telling how long this next one will last.”

“Ten years? More, perhaps? It is a long time, but by then you would surely have an heir and the whole Eyrie to yourself,” the woman said. 

Sansa tried to veil her annoyance. “My lady, while your advice is sound, and undoubtedly the safer course, I must say I cannot simply forget how they betrayed and killed my family. To allow them free reign in the North, in my home, for so long… Roose Bolton may one day die peacefully in his sleep.” The thought made her want to rage, her grip on her spoon growing tight suddenly as she felt a heat rise in her neck. _Did Robb die an old man, peacefully in his sleep? Bran and Rickon, only children when they were hanged? Did my mother…?_

Lady Waynwood gave her a pitying look. “I lost my taste for vengeance long ago,” was all she said. 

It was not long after when Sansa finally finished her meal and stood to return to the Gates. Lady Waynwood walked her and Brienne and Podrick all the way to the gatehouse, despite Sansa’s incessant pleas that she not trouble herself further. Once the three of them were mounted and their water skins refilled, they waved goodbye to Lady Anya and the common folk and resumed the rest of their long journey though the passes. 

The rest of the journey was difficult at first, as the paths were just as narrow and winding as those they had crossed in the morning. But soon the dense wood of the mountains turned to rolling hills, and then the hills turned to vast, green and yellow flatlands. Embedded in the grasses were long slabs of stone scattered throughout the fields, many of them carved with ancient runes while others were barren, the wind having swept them smooth through the ages. They were greeted by a stunning vista of the sea that followed them until sundown. Far across the waters, Sansa could see the ancient port of Old Anchor where numerous trading ships were stationed for the evening. There were tall, colorful flags and banners that shimmered in the wind. _Not long now until I am on a ship myself._ She had not been on a ship since the time Littlefinger whisked her away from King’s Landing and to the Fingers. Sansa had been sick for most of the voyage, unable to keep anything down. _But I was sick with terror and worry,_ she tried to reassure herself, hopeful that the sickness would not return to her again.

The seat of House Royce was far richer than Ironoaks. Runestone’s castle sat upon a large hill of rock just off the northern shore, a long bridge made of large, stone bricks connecting the castle to mainland. Ignoring the great descent into the crashing waters beneath, Sansa kept her attentions to the ancient workmanship of the stones in the bridge itself, wondering how such heavy bricks were mounted and set into place, carved to perfection as though they were pieces to a puzzle. _The First Men might have had help from giants,_ a girlish voice within her said.

The large gate was pulled open for their party. Sansa was not surprised to find they were among the last to arrive. Brienne helped her off her horse, and a maid came quickly to take her orders. “Lady Sansa, welcome to Runestone,” the blonde girl said, “A bath has been drawn for you in your quarters in the east tower. Allow me to escort you there.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said, glad to have a bath before supper. Her thighs ached from the ride, and her gown clung to her skin with sweat. The chambers were homely but spacious, with a large featherbed that was ever so inviting to her aching bones. _But I will not see rest until we are boarded upon Ser Marlon’s war galley._ They would need to depart with the cover of night upon them. One of her trunks with her clothing had been brought up, so she quickly laid out a new gown on the featherbed, stripped off her clothes, and immersed herself into the hot waters of the bath. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A grand applause greeted her in the Great Hall when she finally made it to supper, as though surprised to see she had survived the long journey.

“Took you long enough but you suffered the ride graciously, you did,” Ser Marlon laughed, squeezing her arm as she walked to her seat on the dais. “She’s tough as a Stark!”

“Like it was hard?” Sansa said, inviting even more laughs from the men at the table. _There are quite a lot of men,_ she quickly realized. Besides herself and Brienne and the maids in the hall, there was a hardly any other woman to be seen. Bronze Yohn was a widower and his daughter Ysilla was married to Mychel Redfort, so really there was no Lady of Runestone. A servant brought her hot dish to her right away, filling her goblet with wine before leaving. Upon the dais were her husband and Littlefinger, already halfway though their meals. Her gaze went to those seated below the dais, finding almost instantly Sandor's broad back, wearing a roughspun tunic that hugged his thick upper arms. Sansa felt such a rush of relief at the sight of him that she sighed. Some irksome doubt had her convinced he had abandoned her entirely. She wished she could go and sit with him, ask him how the ride was, whether he was enjoying his meal. Simple things. But instead she chewed on her mutton, listened idly to the conversations being had all around, reciting her courteous replies when necessary. 

Slowly but surely, the hall was emptied of visitors. Brienne waited for Sansa to finish her meal before leading her out to the bridge once again. _It’s time,_ she thought anxiously as they made their way out into the darkness of night. Torches were lit along the stone railings of the bridge, lighting their way to the docks. It had begun to snow lightly and little snowflakes reflected in the firelight. The moon illuminated the bay of the large war galley closest to her. She could count maybe three or four, but knew there would be more to come. A large, carved figurehead of a merman was mounted on the front of the ship, his mouth hanging open menacingly, a trident held pointed in his grasp. Along the side of the galley were carved the words “Trident’s Prong.”

Although many servants and soldiers held lanterns to light their way, Sansa could hardly tell when she had left land to touch the wooden planks of the deck. There was some commotion and heavy foot traffic as the men scrambled to make ready for sailing. The crews meant to man the ships were all Lord Manderly’s men, and many greeted her with such enthusiasm that no one had a right to have at this time of night. Sansa longed for sleep more than anything else. A servant guided her to her cabin below deck by the light of a taper. 

Below decks was something like a maze. The stairs and halls were narrow and never ending, and in the dark there were shadowy corners everywhere one looked. There were others lugging around trunks and sacks, finding their own cabins to settle down for the night. When the servant led her around another bend, she was met with the scarred face of Sandor Clegane. Their eyes met briefly before she was led away. _We share a ship on this journey north,_ Sansa thought. _The gods truly do smile upon me._

The Lord Protector was already snoring loudly on the featherbed when Sansa entered the cabin. She envied him his deep sleep, quickly changing into her nightgown before sliding in beneath the covers. Sleep took her almost instantly, so exhausted had she been. 

Sansa did not feel or hear the ship set into motion all throughout the night. But the morning proved to be another matter entirely. 

She was roused from her sleep by the sickly sounds of vomiting coming from the other side of the featherbed. Harry was seasick, and the smell itself was like to send her to wretch along with him. “Stay here,” she said, “I’ll go get the maester.”

“Please hurry,” Harry whined, his face contorted in pain.

The halls outside of their cabin were awake with movement. Footsteps on the main deck could be heard overhead. Sansa grabbed the closest young man she could find before being forced to go up there herself. She could already feel herself growing queasy. 

Podrick Payne stared at her with wide eyes, a blush creeping into his cheeks. 

“Podrick!”

“G-good morrow, my lady?”

A thought came to her upon seeing him. “Good morrow, forgive me if I startled you. Podrick, do you have anymore of those Wayna leaves you gave me yesterday?”

“Are you feeling ill again, my lady?” He looked at her with concern.

“Yes, it’s the seasickness. I need to find a maester for the Lord Protector, as well.”

“I’ll find him, Lady Sansa,” the young man said eagerly, “And I’ll bring you the rest of my supply as well.”

“Thank you!” she called after him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lord Harrold Hardyng, the Lord Paramount of the Trident and Lord Protector of the Eyrie and Vale of Arryn, was bedridden for the entirety of the day. Sansa, on the other hand, was traversing the broad decks of the war galley happily, the leaves of Wayna between her teeth keeping the seasickness at bay. She could not see it in the dark last night, but the white sails of the Trident’s Prong carried the insignia of House Manderly, the merman painted in a greenish turquoise that matched the spray of the ocean when the waves clashed against the bay of the ship. The Mountains of the Moon had passed them by, and now the shores of the Fingers could be seen in the distance. The salty air whispered through her hair as she looked out to the setting sun in the west. She leaned against the railing at the forecastle.

“Careful,” a familiar voice rasped from behind her, “Didn’t ride all this way to watch you fall overboard.”

She smiled up at him at her side, a strand of auburn hair sliding against her cheek. The wind swept his black hair away from his features, the setting sun making the mangled scars on his face look deep and red. The other side, however, was not uncomely to look upon. 

He did not look in her eyes, only out west toward the seven kingdoms. A thought came to Sansa as she studied the tall warrior. _My guard, my champion, my lover._

“Do you wish we were elsewhere?”

His grey eyes were unreadable. It was a long moment before he spoke. “Aye, I do wish it. I wish we were far away from here, somewhere safe. I wish you were in my featherbed,” he looked down at her, his gaze searing her. “But wishes are as worthless as dreams.”

Sansa saw where one callused hand rested on the railing near hers, and it took everything in her not to reach out to cover his hand with hers. As if reading her thoughts, he moved that hand. A finger poked at her cheek. “What’s that?” he grated.

She was confused for an instant, then remembered. “Wayna leaves. They help with the seasickness,” she said, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

He made a noise that sounded like a grunt, turning back to lean on the wooden balustrade.

“May I tell you something?” 

He said nothing, and Sansa took that as a yes. She thought carefully on how to broach the subject.

“You must have heard the news about your brother’s death…” Queen Cersei had sent the elder Clegane’s head to Dorne some years ago. _And I remember how much you hated him._ “I wanted to say I was sorry.”

He barked a laugh. “Sorry he’s dead? Or sorry I couldn’t kill him myself?”

“Sorry for all the hurt he caused you,” Sansa offered. This time, she let her hand find his, not caring who was there to see. “Sorry that you never made your peace with him.”

He did not move his hand away from hers. “I made my peace with his death on the Quiet Isle, little bird,” he sighed. “The Mountain that rides is dead, and the Hound along with him.”

“May the Stranger embrace them,” Sansa whispered, not knowing what else to say. Sandor said nothing for a while, and they both silently watched as the sun made its slow descent behind the horizon.

“I’ll be going, after,” he spoke suddenly.

She looked up at him, confused for an instant before realization struck her. 

“I understand,” was all she said. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All of the cabins in the ship had low ceilings, and the dining room was no exception. The tables were set along the walls and nailed to the floorboards to prevent sliding whenever the ship swayed. There were no musicians, but the soldiers and knights were singing to their hearts' content as they ate their meals and drank their wine. Sandor had escorted her to the dining cabin and taken a seat for himself along one wall, facing her. Sansa sat quietly at one end of the trestle table, trying not to draw any attention to the fact that she was the only highborn woman in the room aside from the young Wylla. Her attempts were failing, of course. Larence Snow had the drink in him and stared at her unabashedly now, as did a number of other men-at-arms and oarsmen. 

But she paid no heed to those leering eyes. They were as nothing compared to the dark grey ones of Sandor Clegane. 

Ser Marlon’s booming voice could likely be heard back at the Vale. “I’ll tell you something curious that’s been on my mind,” he called out to those who listened nearby. “How in the seven hells did a Lannister man come to be in our party?”

Sansa froze. Those who had heard went deathly quiet. Petyr Baelish spoke first. 

“Who do you mean, my lord?”

“Don’t play coy with me, my lord,” Ser Marlon replied. “You know full well who I speak of. Sandor Clegane!”

The man in question looked up, his stare fixing on Manderly. “You called?” he rasped.

Ser Marlon’s cheeks were round and red. “The tales of the Mad Dog of Saltpans reached all the way to White Harbor. How did you come to be here?”

“He was acquitted of those crimes by the Elder Brother, my lord,” Baelish answered. “Someone had stolen his helm and laid ruin on Saltpans in his name.”

“Is that so?” Ser Marlon said, fascinated. “That still begs the question, why here?”

“I won the tourney at the Gates of the Moon, my lord. I am now under orders to guard the Lord and Lady of the Vale.” Sansa felt her palms grow sweaty as she listened to Sandor defend himself, wishing Ser Marlon would stop questioning him.

The fat knight seemed to consider the non-knight for a moment. “You were there, weren’t you? When they mistreated her?” 

Her throat grew tight. _Does the whole of Westeros know?_ They had an audience now, listening with rapt attention.

“Aye, I was, my lord.”

“Where was your protection then?”

“He never hurt me!” Sansa heard herself say. She stared in shock as all eyes fixed on her. She swallowed, digging deeply for some crumb of courage within the recesses of her heart. _The Manderly’s are staunchly loyal to the Starks. Surely they would appreciate some essence of that here?_ Ser Marlon waited for her to speak further.

“He was one of the only people who stood up for me in front of Joffrey. I was just a child, and he lied for me and told me the proper things to say that might have saved my life.” _I cannot tell them of the night of the Blackwater, not while Littlefinger is listening._ “He is a good man.”

She waited with bated breath for a response. Sandor stared at her with barely concealed fear. A thick hand went to grip his tankard, and Ser Marlon raised it high. 

“To good men!” he called.

“To good men!” rang all the others, and Sansa let herself breath again. Sandor raised his own tankard and nodded to her. He drank deeply, and she along with him.

The men went back to singing and feasting as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. After some time, Sansa excused herself from the table earlier than the rest, claiming a need to check on her lord husband. Instead of going to their cabin, however, she went out to the main deck again.

The night chill swept beneath her skirts, and she brought her cloak tighter about her shoulders. The forecastle was empty, the balustrade cold where his hand once lay. Everything beyond the ship’s railing was pitch, the only sounds in the night the dulled singing from the dining cabin and the creaking of the ship and the subtle crashing of the waves. The stars and moon shown brightly behind thin, wispy clouds. 

She turned suddenly at the sound of footsteps, and she might have screamed had his lips not swallowed her cries.

“You taste bitter,” he rasped. Sansa half gasped, half laughed. She pulled the Wayna leaves from her mouth and threw them overboard. Then she dragged him down by his jerkin to meet his lips once again, craning her neck, going to her toes to reach his great height. His warm hands wrapped around her waist, one going down to her hips and around to cup her bottom. A heat throbbed in her core. She wanted him to squeeze her, hold her tighter. She gasped between their kisses, their ghostly breaths mingling in the night air.

“Sandor…” she whispered, finding she could say no more, hoping he would understand.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Tell me what you want.”

She bravely moved her hand along his hard torso, down to his waist. It found the hardness in his breeches, spanned the length of him through his clothes. He breathed out a gust of mist, picking her up and going to the point of the forecastle. He went to his knees, laying her down gently on the floorboards, spreading her cloak out behind her head. The stars framed his face when he moved above her, planting soft kisses on her cheek and jaw and neck. Sansa’s heart was fluttering in her ribcage, the fear of being caught tearing at her senses while her body longed for his touch. Her fingers threaded through his hair, her other hand traveling up the length of his strong arm. She wrapped one leg around his waist, his cock rubbing against her through the fabric of their clothing. 

Once callused hand found her leg, going under her knee and pulling it high, unbelievably high. Sansa did not even know her leg could go so far. She was glad for the cover of night as a heat flooded her chest and face at her position, her legs spread wide with one slippered foot almost at his shoulder. The backs of her thighs felt cold.

When he was sure her leg would not move from its place, Sandor slid one hand down the back of her thigh, finding the fabric of her smallclothes. He cupped her there for a moment, then moved the fabric aside to slide his fingers over her wetness, moving into her gently. Sansa held him tightly across his back, and her leg almost went down before he spoke. “Keep it there,” he said in a low voice as he moved two fingers in and out of her. Sansa nodded between gasps. “Unlace yourself,” he added, looking at her bosom. Sansa obeyed him, delicate hands pulling at the laces of her gown until her breasts were exposed for him. One hand still working her, he went to suck on one stiff nipple, the same one he had ravaged that night in her chambers. He seemed to favor that one.

After he deemed her ready, he drew himself out, bringing the tip of his cock to rub at her opening, stretching her only slightly. He held her leg in place now, her foot near his shoulder while the other wrapped around his waist. She pulled at him.

“Tell me what you want, little bird,” he whispered, moving into her maddeningly slow. _Does he mean to make me beg?_

“Make love to me,” she managed.

“I already am,” he replied.

Sansa almost made a frustrated sound at him. “Faster,” she pleaded. “ _Fuck_ me, please,” she finally said, letting go of all her restrictions.

He finally moved into her fully, still slowly but going faster and faster with each thrust. “That’s what I like to hear,” he said as he pounded into her, and she did not know whether he meant that about her foul language or her barely concealed moans of pleasure. He fucked her mercilessly, her knee bumping against her breast where his shoulder pushed against her leg. She was sure his hips would leave bruises on her thighs come the morning, but she found she did not care. She was only just focusing in on her pleasure before Sandor made a strangled noise, forgetting to remove his cock before spilling himself hotly into her. He made to move away, cursing, but Sansa stopped him.

“Don’t, I-” She summoned some courage to tell him. “I have moon tea,” she admitted, and sighed at the feel of him sliding back into her wetly. 

“You’re almost there,” he realized.

“Yes, ah…can you…?” He was still stiff as a lance inside her.

“For a little while longer, aye.” Sansa wrapped her leg around him quickly, not letting another moment go to waste. He yielded to her as she slid on top of him, her skirts falling over his thick waist as she straddled him. The ship dipped for a moment in the turbulent waters, and Sansa’s heart leapt in her chest. His face went to the crook of her neck as she rode him, eagerly searching for her pleasure again. A forefinger and thumb pinched and tugged at her nipple, his other hand squeezing her bottom, encouraging her movements. Soon enough, Sansa found herself grinding into his hips, biting her tongue to keep form moaning loudly as the waves crashed through her body. 

She still rode him, more gently now, after the waves subsided. Her arms were around his neck, their lips touching sparingly, neither of them willing to be the first to move away.

“Will you truly go away?” she asked, regretting her question as soon as it left her lips.

But he said nothing, only went to kiss her slowly and gently on her neck, her cheek, her lips. And she let him.


	15. Chapter 15

Seal Rock was an island on the outskirts of the Outer Harbor. There was a ringlet of massive, moss-covered stones that sat upon the large rock, and Sansa saw, for the first time in her life, seals with shiny, leathery skin lazing about in the morning sun.

“Those are stones of the First Men,” Wylla commented from nearby. Her yellow-green hair was tied in a fishtail braid down her back.

Sansa placed her hand on the balustrade of Trident’s Prong, looking out across the harbor. The stones loomed fifty feet above the water. A wisp of smoke rose from within the walls. “Do I see men there?”

“It’s fortified,” Wylla said. “Crossbowmen, scorpions, pitfires, you name it.”

The war galley was approaching a long wall of stone that separated the Outer and Inner harbors, mounted with towers that spanned every hundred yards or so. Marine gargoyles stared down at the two young women as they passed beneath it. The statues’ faces were snarling and shadowed beneath the sun, stained green with moss with long, needle-thin teeth jutting out from their jaws.

“Frightening, aren’t they?” The girl said. “They ward off evil.”

“Do they resemble actual sea creatures?” Sansa looked into the blue-green depths of the sea, imagining what lay hidden below.

“Some of them do, but most are from the deepest trenches and depths and rarely come to surface. The dead ones get caught in our fishnets on occasion. There,” Wylla suddenly pointed. “The Wolf’s Den I told you about.”

“I should like to visit the godswood there.” It had been many a year since Sansa last saw a real weirwood. The ancient black walls of the Wolf’s Den were crumbling, but at its base were attached many little houses and makeshift compartments. The houses were built of whitewashed stone, with flat, slate-grey roofs, as were nearly all of the houses of the city. A dome shaped edifice stood out among the rest, statues of the seven surmounted at its peak in a ringlet. _The Sept of the Snows,_ Sansa recalled the name, a famous septry in the North.

Later, when the galley approached the Seal Gate, Sansa went down to her cabin to gather her things. Their host would be housed at White Harbor for a couple of days to prepare for the war to come. Sansa knew she should be afraid, nervous beyond her imagination at what was to come. But instead she felt a rattling excitement, her movements hurried as she gathered her things into her trunk. There was so much exploring to do in White Harbor, so many historical sites to see. _‘If you want to see the world, go to war,’_ she had heard Sergeant Beron say at supper the other night. Those words had resonated with the soldiers and crewmen, and her. 

Harry was watching her from the featherbed, his face pale and sickly but still handsome in its own way. “I can hardly wait to touch land,” he said miserably.

“Nor can I. You’ll have plenty of time to recover your strengths,” she reassured.

He sat up, then clutched at his tummy quickly. Sansa rushed for the bucket.

Her husband raised a hand. “False alarm,” he muttered. “There’s nothing in my stomach left to regurgitate.”

Sansa set the bucket down. She could not help but pity him. _How will he fare when we journey up the White Knife?_ She considered sharing her store of Wayna leaves, but her supply was quickly running low. Walking over to the side of the featherbed, she helped him to stand slowly. “Come, we’ll get you some honeyed wine the instant we touch land. I’ll have the servants bring up the trunks.” 

Snaking her hand around his elbow, they climbed out to the deck where they were met with numerous crewmen and servants and men-at-arms rushing about on their errands. The dock rested just beyond the main deck. A long wooden gangplank connected the ship to land. Bronze Yohn Royce was walking with Ser Marlon Manderly and Lord Petyr Baelish towards Fish Market Square. Sansa wondered briefly of what they spoke about before Wylla found them and drew her attention away.

“This way, my lord, my lady,” she said, walking backwards on the gangplank with confidence. “Your chambers will be in the New Keep, the seat of House Manderly. It’s a bit of a climb, I should warn.” The girl led Sansa and Harry towards the busy market square, a strong scent of salt and fish and seawater in the air. The cobblestones were wet with slippery water and juices, the stones molded through the years by small streams in some places. And it was loud. Merchants and fishermen and jewelers were calling out prices and offering samples of their catches and products to commoners. Children and chicken crawled everywhere underfoot. Soon, they began their ascent on a broad stone staircase that led to the New Keep, passing by many sellers who had set up shop along the steps themselves. Wylla recognized nearly everyone and she made small talk, asking after their health and family members. Dressed in fine clothes as they were, Sansa and Harry were haggled all the way up to the castle’s doorstep. A man was selling apples from a barrow and a woman was offering herring with chopped onions. Sansa left some spare coin where she could.

“Finally,” Harry huffed in a weak voice once they reached the top of the stair.

The looming doors of the Merman’s Court were ajar and a couple of Manderly’s household guard stood watch on either side. They held silver tridents in place of spears, and their long cloaks were of blue-green wool. The hall was busy with maids and servants and soldiers. Wylla skipped over to a herald and whispered in his ear. The man stomped his staff. “ _Lord Harrold Hardyng, Lord Protector of the Eyrie and the Vale of Arryn and his wife, Lady Sansa of Winterfell,_ ” he called in a ringing voice. Inside the cavernous hall, Sansa gaped in wonderment. The ceiling was curved like the hull of a ship, the woodwork carved and crafted with images of the sea. All around the planks were whitewashed and notched cunningly together to form the walls. Under their feet were painted images of crabs and starfish and sea snakes, half hidden under wavering leaves of seaweed and clams and shells. Along the walls and under tall, arched windows were depictions of much fiercer creatures – sharks and krakens and leviathans caught amidst battle-torn seas. There were bones in some places, too. _Human bones,_ Sansa noted, finding a skull. 

A fat, rose-cheeked maester with a head full of gold ringlets approached them. “My lord, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Maester Theomore. We have many remedies for seasickness here at New Castle-”

“You will not be seeing to the Lord Protector, maester,” Wylla said immediately. “We’ve assigned another to tend to him.”

The robust man looked askance at the green-haired girl, but swallowed his tongue. “As you say, my lady.”

“My grandfather doesn’t trust him,” she explained after the man had left. “He’s a Lannister of Lannisport and won’t admit to the illegitimacy of King Tommen.”

Sansa would have been afraid of that fact if the crown had not already heard of their sedition. _Cersei’s men are already making their way up the King’s Road this very instant._

“I don’t want him anywhere near me,” Harry ordered. “Not after what Coleman did to Robert.”

“There are many other maesters here, my lord. I’d say you aren’t like to need them anymore, though. You look stronger already.” Wylla led the two of them towards the dais where stood an empty, cushioned throne wide enough to fit three. A large man with a walrus mustache and a plump, pink woman with blonde hair waited nearby. Wylla introduced them as her parents.

“My lord,” Ser Wylis Manderly greeted. “Thank you for bringing my daughter back safe and sound.” He was the son of Lord Manderly and the cousin of Ser Marlon, but where his cousin was lively and proud, this man had sunken eyes and a pallid expression, as though wishing to be anywhere else but here. Ser Marlon had told of how long the Lannister’s kept the man captive at Harrenhall, the ways that Gregor Clegane had mistreated him. There were even rumors he was forced to eat the flesh of men. 

The Lady Leona looked Sansa up and down with a strained smile on her face. Sansa said her courtesies. 

“The war finally reaches us in White Harbor,” Lady Leona said with a smile, though she did not sound at all jovial about it. “Sansa Stark, as beautiful as the tales told,” she grinned, her cheeks round and pink. She extended her arms for an embrace, and Sansa awkwardly complied.

The woman let her go quickly. “Was it truly wise to come out of hiding so soon?”

“Mother!” Wylla exclaimed. “Pardon her. And excuse us please while I take the Lady Sansa to her chambers.” Wylla pulled Sansa away, leaving Harry by himself to speak with the various strangers that littered the hall.

“Your mother dislikes me already.”

“It isn’t you, my lady. She dislikes war. After what the Lannisters did to my father… she’s very protective of him.”

“No man will be forced to fight this battle,” Sansa assured her. “Willing soldiers only.”

Wylla shook her head, looking ahead. “Honor and loyalty require that House Manderly ride for the Starks of Winterfell.” The girl had a tone of determination. “My father’s soul has been broken, but he will ride nonetheless.”

Sansa took one last look back to where Harry stood with the Ser Wylis and Lady Leona. Except, there was another girl there now. A slender young woman with long, brown hair.

“Who is she?” Sansa asked, noting the way Harry was ogling her.

“My older sister, Wynafryd. You will meet her after you’ve been settled in, my lady.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The midday meals were held in a large, round hall filled with wooden trestle tables, whitewashed to match the tall walls. Tanks of seawater were lined against one side of the hall, filled with live lobsters and crabs and clams. The cooks weaved in and out of the kitchens to dip their hands into the tanks wearing something that looked like gauntlets to capture the pinching creatures. Some men-at-arms stood by making special requests for their meals.

The crab cake on her plate was nearly done before she felt she could not eat any more. It had begun to rain and snow in the city, and the waterline had risen considerably in the harbor, threatening a flood in the fish market. The people of White Harbor, however, were accustomed to such occurrences, and so busied themselves with other duties in the city while they waited for the sea to go down. 

Going to her feet, Sansa resigned herself to explore the castle halls on her own. She traversed the long halls and corridors, passing by the faded banners, broken shields, and rusted swords put on display in the gallery. It was too early yet in the day to light torches, so the grey overcast of the sky cast a somber hue in the halls. Her shoes clicked on the marble floor. Scores of wooden figures were mounted on stands, antique items that could have only adorned the prows of ships long gone. Tapestries hung from the walls, large enough to rival those at the Gates of the Moon. Most depicted dark and violent scenes – a ship in the crushing grip of a kraken, stormy seas with waves as big as mountains crashing against the hull of a lone galley, dark skies and darker waters that evoked fear and unease. 

They were not very much to Sansa’s taste.

She much preferred happier scenes. Scenes from her childhood, of courtship and love and happiness. There were no flowery scenes to be found here. 

_But scenes of love can be found elsewhere,_ she thought, eyeing a young couple kissing passionately in an alcove. The man wore a soldier’s uniform, and Sansa recognized him as one of Bronze Yohn’s men. She walked on, thinking it rude to stare, only to have another couple walk by her, giggling and fondling each other’s clothes as they stumbled into a nearby corridor. Sansa took the other way.

She climbed a platform to a window. It looked out to the Inner Harbor. The streaks of rain that ran down the glass made the scene look all wobbly. She saw the ships and war galleys moored at the docks, soldiers and crewmen on the decks doing maintenance out in the pouring rain. Trident’s Prong was nearer to the Wolf’s Den, whilst closer to her she read the names _Sings the Siren_ and _Stormeater_. The wooden planks were shiny with rainwater where a crewman swept at them.

Voices sounded from behind her, and she turned just in time to see Littlefinger and Ser Lothor Brune turn into the hall. The former man’s face lit up upon seeing her. 

“Lady Sansa,” he said, his green eyes scanning her body. “Have they left you on your own?”

“I did not want to trouble anyone,” she admitted. Ser Lothor’s hair was wet. 

“Nonsense. Walk with me.” He gave the tall knight a look that was enough to dismiss him.

It occurred to Sansa that she had hardly spoken to Petyr since his trial by combat. _He hasn’t called upon me nor sought me out,_ she thought curiously, wondering why such a detail had slipped her notice. She was accustomed to spending much of her time in his solar, hearing his plans and pouring his wine. 

“How does my lady like White Harbor?”

“I’ve hardly seen a thing, what with this rain.”

“It’ll let up soon. I’d show you around myself but I’m like to have my hands full in a short while,” he sighed.

Sansa knew an invitation when she heard one. “Are they keeping you so busy?”

“An army needs supplies and a soldier needs his coin, my love.”

 _My love?_ They had stopped their promenade before a dark tapestry. The couple that had been kissing in the alcove suddenly straightened themselves and slid away. “A fever of love has taken the keep, I see,” Sansa noted. 

One corner of Petyr’s lips lifted into a smirk, his pointy beard titling with the movement. “War stirs a passion like no other, sweetling. That could have been the last kiss of that poor boy’s life.”

“Is that why they are so eager to go to war? For the thrill? The short-lived romances?”

“Depends on whom you ask,” he said. “Someone like Ser Marlon would say it were for loyalty and vengeance. Bronze Yohn would say it were for honor and glory. I, on the other hand…”

“…would say an opportunity to wet your sword and fill your pockets was too good to pass up,” Sansa finished.

His green eyes bore into hers, but they were unreadable. Sansa knew there was lust there, but something else lay just beneath the surface. Something…uneasy. 

“I can hardly stop myself from asking,” Sansa tried, “What is it that Petyr Baelish seeks in this war? You only stand to lose your coin.”

His gaze went down to her hand and he took it in his own. “My only wish is to see that your desires are met, my lady.” He brought the back of her hand to his lips, kissed it. “I only hope you would consider me a worthy addition to your court.”

 _This much he intends to keep to himself, I see._ “Of course I would,” she lied.

“The rain has stopped,” he stated, running a hand down her arm. Sansa almost flinched. “Take your husband out on a stroll. I’m sure he wants to explore the city just as much as you do.”

“He is occupied with Ser Roland and Larence Snow. He values his friendships above all else.”

“Above you? That is most egregious if it is anything. Find Clegane then, order him to show you around the city. I don’t pay that giant brute for nothing.” He squeezed her arm. When he moved from view she was left staring at the tapestry. The tentacles of the kraken had crushed a gaping hole in the hull, but still the ship warred on against a wall of treacherous sea. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She had nearly given up her search for the warrior until she caught his eye in the Merman’s Court, just as she was making to leave on her own. He had been sitting on a secluded bench that had stone legs shaped in the likeness of fish. He had a whetstone in one hand, the other holding his longsword across his knees. There were others in the court, septons and holy sisters in white robes and grey, but they ignored the newcomers. Sansa spoke as she approached. “Will you accompany me to the Wolf’s Den?” 

His eyes had not left her since she entered the hall, and Sansa felt a heat in her chest. _Does he think I am suggesting something?_ She hoped against it. The night on the ship had been a dangerous mistake, utterly foolish. _But it had been he who approached me that night…_

Sandor’s answer was to sheath the blade and stand. She led the way as they made their descent of the Castle Stair. 

White Harbor had smelled of the sea before, but it seemed the rain had only intensified the scent. She drew her cloak closer about her shoulders over her simple, green woolen gown. It had been some hours since the downpour, and now the clouds made way for a brilliant waning sun that cast a light upon the city. The cobbled streets were wide and straight, making it easy for them to find their way around. The merman of House Manderly was everywhere – hanging from the rooftops and windows and engraved upon doors and stone. Soon, the two of them came upon a cobbled square with a fountain in the middle. A stone merman rose from the waters, tall and imposing. His beard was white and green with lichen, and in his hand he held a trident with a broken prong. A seagull had perched itself on one of the other prongs.

Sansa went to the edge of the fountain, ran a hand through its clear waters. “How impressive.”

“The Manderlys love their mermen,” he rasped.

“Have you tired of them so soon?”

“I’m not like to get the stench of fish out of my clothes for days.”

Sansa looked up at the statue with the heavily muscled chest and arms. “He resembles you, somewhat,” she japed.

He leaned on his good leg, rubbed at the short stubble on his chin. “Don’t see it.”

She couldn’t help but smile at that.

Past the fountain and down further along the Castle Stair, the silversmiths and fishwives were closing up shop. Sansa stopped to look into a glass window. A dazzling silver necklace sat upon a cushioned setting, a small translucent blue-green stone wrapped within wire of silver. She touched the glass, examining other jewels inlayed with stones of turquoise. A shadow moved in the window, but it was only Sandor’s reflection behind her. 

They continued walking, making their way slowly to the Wolf’s Den. Three men sat at a makeshift table rolling dice and sharing a wineskin. They stared at Sansa as she passed. Loud music was coming from an alehouse beneath a warehouse for sheepskins. When they got closer, they heard drunken singing and caught a whiff of stale vomit from the open doors. _The Lazy Eel_ was painted on a wooden lintel above the door. Half naked women hung from the laps of men, laughing loudly. Sansa quickly walked by.

“Those were some of our men in there,” Sansa stated, scandalized.

“Soldiers in a whorehouse, nothing new there.”

She scrunched her face, unable to imagine a guardsman in a place such as that. There were more alehouses along the way, all packed to the brim with shouting men and squealing women. “The city seems to be celebrating early this evening.” She chanced a glance up to Sandor’s scarred features, looking for some reaction to this new and foreign place.

“The streets are cleaner than King’s Landing, but the people are the same.” He spat off to the side. “Never saw the point in celebrating going to war. It’s all painted stories of glory and chivalry until you’re lying on your back in the dirt with the point of a sword at your neck. They think they’ll remember all this on the field,” and there was a hint of resignation in his voice, “but they’ll remember nothing. None of the stories, nothing about chivalry or honor or gallantry.”

Sansa felt herself grow cold at his words. “Will they remember anything?” She recalled the excitement she felt when exiting the war galley, an excitement that only turned to guilt now.

“A man in the face of death only knows one thing. Fear.”

She was silent with her thoughts for a moment, considering his words. 

“If he knows fear, then he must also know courage.”

Sandor said nothing. Only walked alongside her down the wide street. They came across a large open doorway, the sign at the top reading _Old Mint._ Inside, Sansa glimpsed numerous women, children, and elderly huddled beneath blankets on the floor. Some were dressed in nothing but dirty rags. They appeared to be squatters.

The tall man at her side led her away with a hand on the small of her back. “An added bonus of war,” he said sarcastically. “Refugees.” 

She did not doubt it. In a city as rich as this one, so many poor were like to have come from without rather than within. The guilt lodged in her chest only grew. There were children in there, as young as babes. _And here I brought another war in their midst where they had hoped to find escape._

Sandor led the way down the broad white stoneway now, and she watched his muscled back, the slight limp from the old wound when he descended the steps. The way to the Wolf’s Den was longer than she expected. Canals built into the middle and sides of the stepped street were flowing with rainwater. Sansa steered clear of them.

The houses that clung like barnacles to the side of the Wolf’s Den loomed ahead. The crumbling castle walls had been restored somewhat, but the black brick of the ancient fort could still be seen. Sandor lead her through an alley on their left, making their way to the stout bridge under which a wide river flowed. Houses were built upon the bridge itself, sagging off the side as though they threatened to fall into the river any moment. Among the houses were more workshops and silversmiths, but many had already closed for the day.

At the mouth of the Wolf’s Den stood a guard who held the silver trident of House Manderly. He was a young man, no older than twenty, and his cheeks were round and he had bushy black eyebrows. He stared at her companion’s scars dumbly.

“Your business?” he asked curtly.

Sandor showed the boy a ribbon of blue-green that bore the merman of House Manderly. “The lady would like to see the godswood,” he replied bluntly.

The guardsman stepped aside to let them pass.

“Would you be so kind to give us directions?” Sansa asked.

His eyes flickered between her face and Sandor’s. “Right ten paces, then right five paces, and right again thirty paces.”

“Or,” Sandor rasped, “left twenty paces.”

The guard shrugged. “Whichever you prefer.”

Sansa and Sandor looked at one another briefly, then continued on their way. 

The halls of the Wolf’s Den were dank and dark and smelled of grime. Somewhere deep within the walls could be heard distant moans and the rattling of chains. The corridor they passed through now was devoid of people except for a guard that stood before a gated entrance to some depths beneath the castle. _The prison must be built underneath,_ Sansa imagined. The corridor lightened suddenly to a courtyard on their right.

In the center of the courtyard stood one of the largest weirwood trees Sansa had ever seen. She had forgotten how tall and wide they could grow. Its roots were mangled and contorted, twisting in and out of the soil like some sea serpent. A few withered leaves crunched beneath the heals of her shoes. The branches were thick and white and the red leaves fanned out in all directions, as big as the span of Sandor’s hand. The trunk, however… _That face is so…young._ The cracks and wrinkles were still there, but something in the face bore a childlike essence. Sansa approached the cracked wood, lifted a hand to the bloodred sap that descended from the carved eyes. _Have I seen this face before? A drawing, perhaps, in some historical tome…?_

“We shouldn’t be gone long,” Sandor stated from where he leaned against a pillar, his mailed arms crossed over his chest. “It’s a long ways up back to New Castle.”

Sansa dragged her eyes away from the face in the wood and went to her knees above a pile of fallen leaves. The young woman clasped her hands together, closed her eyes to pray.

_I pray you haven’t forgotten me,_ she began, _I have been gone for so long, and this face that now looks down upon me calls back my Northern roots, a face so young that serves a reminder of the gods of my childhood. For this, I thank you._

_I’ve returned now, and must pray that the old gods still hold me close in their hearts to help me in the trials that lie ahead. A battle for my home is coming. Pray guide me towards those choices that would see me, and those I love, to be safe. Give strength and courage to our true and faithful warriors of the North, and protect us from harm._

_I look upon you and see Winterfell’s godswood. I see my brothers and my sister and my mother and father. I may never see my family again… but I will see Winterfell._

A draft swept up beneath her cloak. She turned to find Sandor had been staring at her.

“Did you say something?” she inquired.

Grey eyes narrowed at her. He stepped towards her, leaves crumbling under his large boots. “No. Let’s go before supper starts without us.” He extended his hand to her, and she took it, going to her feet.

“Does it not look like a child to you? A boy, perhaps?”

The tall man considered the weirwood. “He looks asleep. Or dead. But they all look that way.”

When they came out to the base of the Castle Stair, Sansa weaved her hand through his elbow. The sun was setting as they began their ascent.

“Did you take to the faith in the Quiet Isle?” she asked when they crossed the bridge.

“Only as much I needed to survive,” he grated. “One religion is enough, though.” He glanced down at her for a moment before turning ahead again. “Two, and all those gods start to get mixed up in your pretty little head.”

His scars twisted, and Sansa could have sworn he was smiling. “I never confuse my gods,” she countered, almost offended that he could suggest such a thing. But in truth, her annoyance was rooted in his admission to not taking the faith, even after all those years. _What does it matter to you what he believes?_ a distant voice said.

“Tell me, little bird,” he said when they passed by Old Mint. “What do you do when the old gods tell you one thing, but the Seven tell you another?”

She contemplated her answer, imaging some instance in which that had occurred, but finding none. After a few moments, she said, “I do what my heart feels is right.”

“Aye, the heart. That’s as far as my faith goes. The place where life begins and ends.”

“The heart is not always a trustworthy guide,” she said, feeling a heat rise in her chest. _It hasn’t been with me…_

“At least it’s honest,” he rasped. 

Sansa’s hand felt heavy on his elbow, her chest growing tight. _He means to say I am dishonest,_ she thought, a heavy feeling in her tummy. _It is not untrue._ They carried on in silence the rest of the way, passing by marble mermaids that lit the way back up to New Castle. Burning whale oil spilled from the bowls in their arms. The gates of New Castle had been closed, but Sandor called out to the guards and a postern gate was opened. He showed that same ribbon to a couple of skinny men-at-arms and led Sansa towards the Merman’s Court.

She let her hand fall from the crook in his arm when they entered the hall.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The feast had been a boisterous affair. Merman’s Court was filled to capacity with lords and ladies and soldiers and guardsmen. The ale and wine had been overflowing, and the cooks had prepared seafood dishes of salmon and lobster and lampreys, trays of steamed clams and mussels, and shrimp and crab cake to feed the whole castle. The musicians played bawdy songs that pulled the couples to the painted center floor, dancing atop the bones and seaweed on the ocean floor. Then they played songs of battle and conquest, the men’s arms thrown about each other’s shoulders, singing loudly and jovially. Even Ser Marlon joined his booming voice to the rest. Sansa looked at their faces from her place on the dais, mostly young men, green and untried. _‘They’ll remember nothing… only fear.’_

The guards of Lord Manderly’s court stood on duty, leaving Sandor and Brienne and the rest of the Winged Guard to feast along with the rest. Podrick had assumed a seat to Brienne’s left. Sandor leant back in his chair, his gaze always present and aware. She lowered her eyes when he caught her staring.

Harry belched near her, and she looked at him askance. “Forgive me,” he wiped at his mouth with a kerchief. “I feel as though I haven’t eaten in weeks.”

“I pray the journey up the White Knife will be easier.”

Among the lords seated upon the dais, Ser Marlon seemed to be enjoying himself the most, his platter constantly being cleared of the little fishy skeletons he left behind. His cousin, Ser Wylis, looked somber as ever, his walrus beard drooping over the corners of his mouth. Lady Leona wore a bright green gown that matched the garish green of Wylla’s hair. Petyr Baelish sat to Bronze Yohn’s right, making conversation with the northmen Ser Ronnel Stout and Ser Ellis Ridger. Larence Snow’s station did not befit him a place on the dais, but he held a seat of honor just below. He stared at her from his cups even now, curly black ringlets falling near to his big, brown eyes. She found she missed the Great Hall at the Gates of the Moon.

Soon enough, Sansa found herself being swept upon the dance floor. First by her lord husband, his handsome dimples deep when he smiled down at her, then by Ser Marlon Manderly, the man sure-footed and graceful for his large size. She danced a promenade with Bronze Yohn, and shared a waltz with Petyr Baelish. His minty breath was dulled by the wine.

The feast ended very late, and Sansa felt how tired her legs were from her earlier walk and all the dancing when she stood to retreat to the chambers that had been reserved for the Lord and Lady of the Vale. Harry opted to stay at the feast as the older men exchanged old tales and drowned themselves in drink. Wylla caught up with her on her way out and escorted her to her chambers.

“I wanted to give you a tour of the city, but my mother is punishing me for riding south to retrieve you.”

“You snuck away without her permission, then?” Wylla looked nothing like her little sister Arya, but her ferocity and disobedience rang so familiar to Sansa it made her heart clench.

“I wanted to. You had to see my house is loyal to yours. Plus,” she added, “I wanted to see a new place. It’s not fair how they keep me anchored to this city.”

“White Harbor is very pretty,” Sansa said truthfully.

“I’m sure further north is prettier still.”

The young woman stopped in her tracks. “Surely you do not mean to ride north with this army?” _She’s far too young and wild at heart._ Something within Sansa could not bear the thought of seeing her hurt.

Wylla raised two thin, blonde eyebrows at her. “You’re going, aren’t you?”

“That is different,” she said, shaking her head, but Wylla took her hand. “You give me courage,” she admitted. “Seeing how you bravely told the Queen to send her men to Winterfell made me want to go there to see for myself. You’re strong, I can tell, and my house owes it to yours to see the Starks of Winterfell returned home.”

Sansa swallowed. “Stark,” she corrected, squeezing the young girl’s hand.

“No,” she said. “ _Starks._ ”

Sansa looked at the young girl confusedly. She leaned in closer.

“There’s a rumor that your brothers still live,” Wylla began, and Sansa felt her heart rise in her throat, “the Greyjoy never killed them, and Bran and Rickon hid in the crypts during the sacking. They say Rickon is far away in Skagos as we speak. We’ve sent a smuggler of King Stannis to retrieve him. Those are only words, though. But I believe them. I feel it in my bones.”

The young woman’s mind was reeling, an ache slowly ebbing at the base of her skull. _The hanging boys, the bodies dipped in tar._ She shuddered at the gruesome thought. _Could it have been a ruse?_ “What about Bran?” she choked.

“We still don’t know,” Wylla said as they continued to walk. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you. It would be cruel to get your hopes up if the rumors turned out to be false. But I am confident, my lady…”

That night, Sansa found she could hardly sleep. Harrold Hardyng was snoring lightly on the other end of the featherbed. She curled into the coverlet, smelling the clean scent of soap and salt. _Little Rickon, oh gods._ He had been three years old when Sansa had seen him last, a playful boy who loved his mother dearly. If the rumors were true, she prayed the gods give this smuggler in Skagos the will to carry on his pursuit of her brother. _While I take Winterfell. For him._ Falling into sleep’s embrace, her last thoughts were of the weirwood tree in the courtyard of the Wolf’s Den, and of her other brother Bran. She pictured him somewhere safe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Northmen had assembled in the Merman’s Court to discuss strategies, and Sansa was glad to be invited to listen. From what she gathered, Stannis Baratheon and Mors Umber had joined their strengths and now marched upon Winterfell from Wolfswood in the northwest. Whoresbane Umber’s men, along with those of House Hornwood and House Cerwyn, marched from the east from Hornwood, and the lords and ladies from within Winterfell's walls prepare to turn at a moments notice. _And with the Vale’s men and White Habor’s navy striking from the south, we have them cornered._

“Roose Bolton would be a fool not to surrender,” Bronze Yohn had said.

“He still holds to the threat of having the Greatjon killed should Umber advance further,” claimed Ser Ellis Ridger, “but he is too valuable a hostage should Stannis take Winterfell.”

“And Roose waits for reinforcement from King’s Landing,” Ser Marlon's laugh had been booming. “An act of desperation if I ever saw one!”

They waited until nightfall to mount the war galleys. Three thousand men and counting, the ships packed with knights and warhorses and siege engines. Crewmen and soldiers filled the upper decks, pulling at the ropes and sails to make ready for departure. Sansa squinted through the dim light of dusk from the forecastle of the Trident’s Prong. Wylla snaked her way up the gangplank just before it was pulled up, her green hair hidden beneath a woolen scarf. She felt a flutter of nervousness. _I have no one to blame but myself for this._

“Northern women have a taste for war, it seems.” His voice was the sound of steel on stone.

Sansa turned to find Sandor sitting on a wooden barrel. He wore a jerkin of dark leather, the sheath of a dagger hanging from his hip. His grey eyes found hers, the shadows deep in the ridges of his scars.

“She reminds me of my sister,” Sansa admitted. She hugged the cloak about her shoulders. Women and children were waving goodbye from the docks, young women waving handkerchiefs in the air. There were tears from all, both aboard the ship and on the dock. The Seal Gate had been opened, and the ship crossed beneath the long wall that separated the Inner Harbor from the Outer. The gargoyles were silhouetted against the darkening sky.

“You’re nervous,” Sandor rasped. His voice was closer to her, and Sansa found that he had stood to lean with her against the balustrade. 

“Of course I am,” she said, the crisp, salty wind sliding through her auburn tresses. The Trident’s Prong was the first to enter the White Knife. 

Sandor looked down at her from his great height. As long-limbed as she was, Sansa was still at a height with his massive shoulder. “You’ll be safe at the encampments while we take the castle,” he assured. “If Bolton doesn’t surrender by the day’s end, his men will have been slain long before.” 

“I’m confident in our forces,” she said, furrowing her brow. “I only fear…” _For you_.

He lifted a callused fist to her face, turning her chin up gently to look at him. There was understanding on his features, but there was also a sadness so deep Sansa struggled to keep from looking away. 

“I said I would see you find Winterfell. I meant it.”

He lowered his fist to his side, but something glimmering there caught Sansa’s eye.

“What is that in your hand?”

Sandor seemed to freeze. His fist clenched tighter around the object, his mouth unspeaking.

After some moments, he lifted his fist, keeping his eyes lowered. Sansa waited as he opened his rough fingers.

Thin, delicate silver pooled at the center of his palm, a crystal clear stone of blue-green cushioned atop the glimmering puddle. Sansa found herself breathing deeply, her heart threatening to break from her chest. A delicate hand went to lift the necklace from his, and she realized she was trembling. 

The chain hung from her fingers, but she dared not look up at him else the tears would fall for true. “Thank you,” was all she found she could say. “Will you…?”

He took it from her, unclasping the hook. Sansa turned, and was met with the setting sun in the west and the White Knife in the north. Gently, he swept her long auburn hair from her shoulders and brought the chain around her neck. The round stone rested just below her clavicle. A hand went to touch it. She loved the way it sparkled in the waning sunlight, the color of crashing waves in the harbor.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Violence and Gore
> 
> Get your battle playlists ready.

“A gift, my lady,” said Wylla Manderly. “My grandfather requested it be commissioned for you.”

Trident’s Prong creaked and groaned on the White Knife, and Sansa looked down upon the shining metal cushioned on her featherbed. A hand slid over the melded breastplate, the snarling head of a direwolf engraved under the slight curves of the breast. The grey fur shone in silver, the teeth plated of a lighter white gold. It was to be used for ornament more than protection, but it was beautiful beyond her imagination. 

“You must wear it when we reach land. It will give the men courage,” Wylla insisted. 

Sansa looked up at the young girl, her garish green hair tied behind her shoulders. They would be reaching land as soon as supper was done. River runners had been sent ahead of them to set up their encampments less than a league away from Winterfell. The slim boats were best for traversing the swift currents and rocky shoots of the White Knife.

“Of course I will. Thank you,” she said, picking up the metal. Her arms sagged under its weight. Sansa looked over at Brienne who stood near to the cabin door, fully suited in her armor of the Winged Guard. “I don’t know how you do it.”

Brienne almost smiled. “Your body grows accustomed to the weight after some time,” the tall woman commented. “But you don’t have much time, I fear.”

“I should like to put it on now, then.”

The woman warrior went to help her, unbuckling the clasps along the side of the plate with deft hands. It opened at its hinges like the mouth of an oyster, enveloping Sansa about her waist. It fit her snuggly above her thick, woolen bodice. Her hands came down to touch the cold steel, reveling in this new sensation of wearing armor. It felt less heavy when her hips supported its weight. It felt… _real._

Everything was beginning to feel all too real.

“I have something for you as well, my lady.”

Sansa faced Brienne, now feeling overwhelmed with all these fine gifts. _First the silver necklace from Sandor, then this beautifully engraved armor from the Northmen…_ “If it is more steel I do not think I can carry anymore,” she said feebly.

Her large sapphire eyes bore into hers. “It is steel. But I will carry it for you.”

Wylla glanced at Sansa, excitement writ on her face. Brienne beckoned Sansa to follow, and the young woman threw her cloak and furs about her shoulders before being led out to the wooden halls of the galley, Wylla trailing on her heels. Crewmen and servants and soldiers stared as they walked by, eyes roving over her chest and armor. Many stared in a mixture of wonderment and lust, but Sansa kept her eyes on the light blue cloak draped over Brienne’s broad shoulders, the feathers of the ivory wings embroidered upon it reaching almost to the floor. They came upon a staircase leading deeper into the hull of the ship, down to where the warhorses and siege engines were being kept. It smelled of manure and hay and rust.

“Pod!” Brienne called when she spotted the scruffy black-haired squired. He looked up from a game of spindles and dice he was playing with a couple of younger soldiers, going to his feet quickly. “Ser? My lady?” He colored at seeing Sansa and Wylla standing nearby.

“Bring me the sword,” the scarred woman ordered.

“At once,” he said, leaving instantly to retrieve the blade from where it lay hidden in the stables. He came back quickly carrying a long, roughspun brown sack in his arms. Sansa did not know how she felt about being gifted something she would not be able to wield for herself, but she followed Brienne anyway to a dark, secluded area in the stables. A small circle built in the wooden wall looked out to the setting sun in the west.

Wylla sat herself atop a short stack of hay, eagerly awaiting the reveal of this sword. _She’s more excited than I am,_ Sansa thought, feeling somewhat guilty.

The straw-haired woman reached into the sack, her hand wrapped around the gold grip of a sword, the pommel melded into a lion’s head with two shining, ruby eyes like red stars in the sky. _Lannister steel…?_ Her heart began to race, and Wylla went to her feet beside her. Sansa stared as Brienne pulled out the longsword from its glittering scabbard, the heads of lions decorating its length. “My lady,” the woman warrior intoned, 

“This is Oathkeeper.”

She pulled the black shining blade from its scabbard, and Wylla threw herself roughly in front of Sansa. They both grunted as they hit the ground, the armor digging painfully into Sansa’s back. “Help! Someone help!” the girl screamed as Podrick desperately tried to quiet her down. Brienne stared in horror at the women strewn on the floorboards.

“You did not think…? Oh, gods.”

“Wylla, stop. Wylla!” Sansa ordered, “It’s alright. She won’t hurt me.”

“Why are you carrying Lannister steel, wench?” Wylla seethed. “You near gave us heart attacks!”

The deep scars in Brienne’s cheeks elongated in her frown. She looked to Sansa as she spoke, Podrick helping her to her feet.

“This sword was forged from your father’s greatsword, Ice. It was a gift to Jaime Lannister, but he entrusted it to me so that I may have a worthy weapon with which to defend you. I swore to return you safely to Winterfell… as did Jaime. We were to make an exchange-”

“The Kingslayer?” Wylla said, appalled at the situation.

“His name is Jaime,” corrected Brienne.

Sansa did not doubt the validity of Brienne’s claims. The onyx blade of the longsword shined in the little light that shown through the window, wisps of dark red adorning its length. _Valyrian steel._ Sansa moved forward, her hand going to the cold steel where Brienne held it out to her. 

Its edges were sharp.

 _My father’s sword,_ she thought distantly, though it looked nothing like it anymore. “Thank you,” she heard herself say, “for returning my father’s steel to me. I know you will use it well.”

The large fist tightened on the grip of the sword. “In defense of your cause, and your life,” Brienne said.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The men in the dining hall had welcomed her with shouts and claps and whistles. The sight of the Stark direwolf emblazoned on her breastplate sent the crowd into a frenzy, especially the Northmen. Ser Marlon Manderly beamed a broad smile the instant he saw her, insisting she take her meal by his side. “In honor of the history shared between our houses. May this allegiance go unbroken for a thousand years more!” he had proclaimed, inviting calls of “hear, hear!” and “cheers!” all around. The cooks had brought out steaming dishes of freshly baked salmon flavored with peppers and herbs and lemons, and the soldiers and lords and knights drank deeply from their tankards filled with Arbor Gold and Dornish Red. Songs of courage and gallantry had been sung to the tops of their lungs. There had even been dancing. Sansa might have even said they were _happy_ to risk their lives in battle.

But that was before the ship was finally moored at a dock.

It was as if everyone had woken from a dream, going immediately to their duties as quickly and efficiently as possible. There was no more laughter and song. Now, there was only following orders. The war galleys could travel no further – the White Knife became too narrow and shallow and treacherous with rocks and boulders, and so the crew had thrown down a wooden stair that reached land from the decks, and more gangplanks were placed lower still on the hull to retrieve the siege engines and warhorses from the stables and storage cabins. It was dark, long past suppertime, and the faces passing her by were indiscernible in the darkness and commotion.

All except one. 

“Ready?” he rasped.

“Yes,” she answered, taking his arm where he offered it. _I have no other choice,_ she thought, her heart racing. The steel of his vambrance was cold even through her thick leather gloves. _I must be as strong as my lady mother._

Sandor weaved his way through the darkness and hustling bodies on the deck, unbelievably light of foot for a man his size. Sansa could hardly see a thing if it were not for the lit tapers that illuminated their way like fire bugs every few paces or so. She heard the harsh rushing of the river beyond the shouting orders from the crewmen. One moment her boots clunked on the wooden boards of the deck. In the next, they descended the stepped gangplank, and in another they touched the soft earth and something muddy and slippery. _Snow,_ Sansa realized. _Northern snow._

Cold night air kissed her cheeks and she pushed her furs closer about her neck. Sandor was walking quickly, and she was at loss at how he could find his way when she could hardly see the hand before her face. There were no moon and stars this night, only a sky of deep violet reflected in the dense clouds above them.

“Does the wind bite at you?” the tall man suddenly asked.

“No,” Sansa lied, trying to sound brave.

“Good,” he replied, “I’m no match for the winds of winter.”

_He’s japing,_ she realized with some astonishment. _He knows I’m afraid._

“Have you made your water?” he grated.

“Pardon me?” Sansa scrunched her face at him, but he could not see.

“The army will wake before dawn. You won’t have many hours of sleep before then. I’d make them count if I were you.”

They had reached the encampment, making their way through rows and rows of tents and hearths. Men were crawling into the flaps of their tents, putting out fires where they saw them. Sansa found a secluded enough area to make her water, and then Sandor led her further on through the flimsy little houses.

“Where are we?” she asked, wondering how far away they were from home.

“Not far from Wintertown. In the morning, you get on that hill there,” he nodded somewhere to his right, but she could hardly see, “you’d be able to see Winterfell’s walls.”

Sansa squinted through the darkness, to no avail. _I am so close_. She breathed deeply, the air chilling her lungs.

The large warrior came to a sudden stop before her. “This is your tent.” It was much bigger than the others. The quartered banner of House Hardyng and Arryn hung from a post at its side. It was dark when she checked inside.

“Will I see you in the morning?” She could not help but feel safest when she knew he was near.

His face was a silhouette against the night sky, and then the shadow descended and crushed its lips against hers. They were warm and inviting despite the cold, a gauntleted hand wrapping around her waist and pulling her close for an instant that ended far too soon.

“You will,” was all he said before leaving her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was warm inside the pavilion despite the early morning chill. A long table had been set in the center where the lords and knights broke their fast. Sansa herself was too nervous to eat. She had hardly snatched a blink of sleep in the night, unaccustomed to sleeping with nothing but a thick blanket on the hard earth. She might have yawned as she listened to the old men strategize, but her nerves pricked her skin awake. She pulled her furs tighter about her body, her new breastplate pressing into her torso. The hood of her cloak covered her auburn hair. Everyone was wrapped in fur-trimmed cloaks. Harry huffed his hot breath into his hands and Petyr Baelish had wrapped a thick woolen scarf of deep green about his neck, the mockingbird brooch hidden beneath. The remaining Winged Guard lined the pavilion’s draping walls. Sandor’s face was hard and unreadable. At her hip, Brienne carried Oathkeeper, her hand resting upon the golden pommel.

Bronze Yohn had received a raven with a letter from the south. Queen Cersei’s troops were making their way up the neck as they spoke, still many leagues away from them. _Good,_ Sansa thought, _the less men there are to aid Roose Bolton the better._ Another raven had reached Ser Wylis Manderly from his father in the North. Inside Winterfell, many northmen had been sent out to meet with King Stannis, leaving the northern lords within the walls vulnerable but, unbeknownst to Roose Bolton, reinforcing King Stannis’ army. Some part of her hoped the man would surrender before any blood was spilt, but that thought quickly dissipated when a bannerman entered the pavilion.

“My lords, a messenger from Roose Bolton,” the young man announced. Sansa’s pulse raced with worry.

“Let him enter,” Ser Marlon ordered.

The messenger was a skinny young man with the wisp of a mustache above his upper lip. His brown hair was wet with snow and sweat. “My lords, I bear a message from the Warden of the North, Lord Roose Bolton.”

“We know that already, boy. Get on with it,” Ser Marlon scowled impatiently. 

“My lord has asked that you call your men to stand down and leave the North peacefully to go back from whence you came.”

Utter silence. Then, slowly, Ser Marlon began to laugh, and the other lords and knights joined in. 

After some long moments, the laughter came to an ebbing halt. “Tell him we decline this request," the fat man responded, "and in turn we suggest he surrender before he see’s his men and his lineage wiped out for good.”

The messenger seemed to pale. “My lords, Lord Roose had indeed expected such a response, and thus would like to relay that he will hang the Northern lords one by one outside the gates of Winterfell for every hour that you remain encamped here, starting… about an hour ago since I have ridden here.”

Almost at once, every man seated at the table stood to their feet. “Bloody bastard!” Ser Marlon’s chin quivered when he cursed. The knights were rushing past Sansa, and the messenger seemed to have disappeared into thin air. Bronze Yohn gave rushed orders to his sergeants, who in turn left to get their men suited for battle. Her handsome husband was looking around confusedly in his fine plate, his dark blue eyes finding her. He came to her.

“Looks like it’s time,” he said excitedly, showing Sansa a smile with his straight white teeth.

“May the Warrior guide your sword, husband,” she said dutifully, placing a chaste kiss upon his plump lips before Ser Lothor Brune guided him to take his position out in the vanguard. The pavilion was almost emptied of people when Sansa moved to leave.

“You’ll stay here,” a voice rasped from behind her. She turned to find both Sandor and Brienne looking down at her.

“I need to see.” Her voice was stern. Then to Brienne, “The sight of me will hearten our men, remember? I must be there.”

The warriors broached no further argument. Where inside the tent the air was still and quiet, outside was like another world. Squires and soldiers were running this way and that, almost colliding with Sansa as she made her way to her horse, Sandor and Brienne following close by. People were shouting and scrambling everywhere they turned. A woolen blanket covered her grey mare, and Sandor removed it quickly, helping her into her saddle with his strong, gauntleted hands. His grey eyes found hers, and for a brief moment she thought she saw fear there. 

They rode to just behind the vanguard, banners held high by the flag bearers. She recognized the red and white diamonds of House Hardyng, the falcon and moon of House Arryn, the black and bronze sigil of House Royce. There was as well the merman of House Manderly, the roaring giant of House Umber, and even the flaming heart of King Stannis Baratheon, among others. Sansa even saw, to the swell of her heart, the grey and white direwolf of House Stark being raised high.

And, further out beyond the rolling hills of crystalline white snow… 

Winterfell.

Her breath caught in her throat. She felt as though she was being transported through time, to an era of childhood bliss and peace. The two massive granite walls loomed a hundred feet high, imposing to all those who sought to stand against them. To her, though, _they are inviting._

“Bring me a messenger!” Ser Marlon Manderly’s booming voice brought her to her senses, and she began to register the situation at hand.

Roose Bolton had stationed his men outside Winterfell’s gates. Many of them were on foot, carrying lances and swords and blades that glimmered in the dawning light. The Warden in the North himself stood upon a raised dais just behind his men, a row of about a dozen people standing with hands tied and nooses around their necks. The ropes were tied to a thick wooden plank overhead. Sansa’s skin prickled with gooseflesh.

Among those sentenced to death was a tall woman with greying hair that Sansa took to be Lady Barbrey Dustin. To her side stood a one armed man who could be none other than Lord Harwood Stout, and to his left an aging old man by the name of Whoresbane Umber. Most glaring of all, however, was an extremely rotund man of old age who was being held up by his arms by two knights, the noose wide around his sagging chins. _Lord Wyman Manderly himself,_ Sansa noted. _Thank you for the beautiful armor._

Both armies where at an impasse now, it seemed, and all waited with baited breath for what Ser Marlon would decide was the next step of action. Sansa saw smoke rising from the distant northwest, what could only be King’s Stannis’ army fast approaching. Ser Marlon said a few words, and then a messenger was dispatched from their vanguard, and she watched as the soldier rode hard in the snow, kicking up mists of white in his wake. She did not know what Ser Marlon had told the messenger, a parley perhaps, or terms of agreement and peace.

It made no matter in the end.

Their messenger had barely reached midfield before she heard shouts and screams from both their army and the one across the fields. Horses nearby her whinnied, and in the distance she saw a crowd had gathered at the foot of the dais.

Long after, some would claim to have seen the knights push him, while others asserted with ferocity to have witnessed the man jump on his own accord. It made no matter one way or another, for what Sansa had witnessed at that moment was Lord Wyman Manderly’s humongous body dangling from his neck by the noose, the wooden plank sagging with his colossal weight, his arms and legs kicking out like some massive wild boar caught in a trap. A group of soldiers tried to pull him up by his rolls of fat, failing miserably. The old man’s face was growing purple when, suddenly, the plank itself snapped cleanly in half.

No one knew what became of those poor soldiers who stood bravely beneath Lord Wyman Manderly. 

There was no time to tell, because before anyone knew it, a war horn had been blown so loud it nearly shattered Sansa’s eardrums. Utter chaos had been unleashed around her, destriers and warhorses flying out into the field, the shouting and calls ringing in her ears. The banners flew past her in all their colors, and she watched Bronze Yohn Royce ride out into the fields wearing his bronze plated armor with the runes engraved upon it. There was a flash of black on her left, and she recognized the horse as Sandor’s destrier. A woman’s voice spoke to her right. “We must get you to safety,” Brienne said.

“We must get her to the castle,” said a grizzled voice behind her. When Sansa turned, she was met with the dark eyes of Sergeant Beron. He was Lady Dustin’s man, and behind him was a group of thirty or more knights and soldiers who had stayed behind. _For me,_ Sansa quickly realized.

“Have your brains turned to shit?” Sandor barked.

“It’s safest within the walls,” the man argued, pulling down his visor, “We attack from the inside. No more than thirty men. I know a way into the crypts from the outside. Lady Dustin had me brandish an axe to open the icy thing. We’d have to ride around from the east but I know exactly where it is.”

“You’ve taken leave of your senses,” Brienne stated.

“Take me there,” said Sansa Stark. Her heart was threatening to fly from her ribcage and Sergeant Beron’s strategy had chilled her to the bone, but deep down, Sansa knew. _I am a Stark of Winterfell, and my place is behind those very walls._ She lifted the reigns of her horse, twisting, but a gauntleted hand reached out to pull them towards him. 

“You risk your life,” Sandor said harshly, his eyes boring into hers.

Sansa placed a gloved hand over the hard armor of his gauntlet. 

“I know.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The icy winds slid against her cheekbones, and Sansa pulled her woolen scarf closer about her face and neck. Their mounts had been kicked into a hurdling canter, their path going wide around to the east. Sandor flanked her on her left and Brienne on her right, all three following Sergeant Beron’s warhorse, riding hard. A mailed soldier came up beside Brienne suddenly, lifting his visor to look to Sansa.

Except, it was not a soldier at all.

“For the North!” the girl called out to her, wisps of green hair flying out from the side of her visor.

Brienne’s eyes grew wide with outrage. “Pod!” she called from behind her shoulder without slowing her horse. “Take her back to the encampments!”

“Hah!” Wylla cackled, “Who do you think gave me the armor?!”

Podrick only pulled his visor down further, one palm of his hand covering the blush that spread over his freckled features.

“Get on my left! NOW!” Brienne shouted, and soon the young girl was riding beside Sansa.

“Fucking Northern women,” Sandor muttered beside her.

Bolton’s men had caught sight of their party, a troop riding fast and hard to intercept them before reaching the castle walls. Just beyond those troops, Sansa could see where the two armies had finally clashed, swords slashing and stabbing every which way, turning the previous crystalline white snow into a garish red. Many of their men had been unhorsed, but it appeared Bolton’s men were taking the bulk of the losses, pink hauberks and banners strewn across the hills. Bronze Yohn was distinguishable by his bright white beard, still atop his warhorse, cutting down men left and right, and Ser Marlon Manderly was flanked by his knights to either side who did the fighting for him.

Her husband, however…

Harry had been unhorsed sometime in the disarray, Ser Roland Waynwood and Ser Lothor Brune defending him on either side. He fought hard with one particular knight bearing the flayed man of House Bolton. Ser Roland had taken a hit on his left, causing him to stumble in the deep snow. He held up his shield just in time to parry an attack from his opponent, but Harry was being pushed further behind by the Bolton man, losing his battle. Ser Lothor sliced into the neck of a soldier to his right, watching as the man fell, dead before he even hit the snow. Ser Lothor turned then to face Harrold Hardyng, seeing how he struggled against the Bolton man.

Seeing, and doing… _nothing._

The knight with the flayed man on his shield ran his sword across Harry’s neck, loosing a stream of blood from his collar.

Sansa felt her stomach twist horribly at the sight. _Petyr,_ she realized in shock. _I know now what it is you want-_ but she found she could not finish where her thoughts led, barely able to register the scenes she was witnessing before the troops had caught up to them. Sandor began to swing his lethal longsword in their direction, unhorsing knights and soldiers and drawing streams of arterial blood from those who dared venture too close. Brienne grunted roughly to her side when a quick knight clashed with her on her right, but a slash to his leg brought him toppling over his saddle.

Her breathing had grown erratic, gloved hands gripped painfully tight on the reigns of her horse. Her scarf had long been ripped away from her head, the hood refusing to stay up in the harsh winds. Her ears were cold, and her auburn hair whipped wildly behind her. Sandor and Brienne were keeping time with her, soldiers and knights falling to their swords from all around. Wylla kept screaming obscenities every time one got too close, causing Sansa’s heart to leap in her chest. There was more smoke rising in the east. _Whoresbane’s men,_ she remembered. _Please hurry._

Winterfell’s walls loomed just a few more yards ahead of them. Steam was rising from within as the hot springs warmed the castle walls. _Almost there, gods, please, almost there._ She chanced to look behind her shoulder.

Podrick was still there, leaning close to his horse. The Bolton men had been eradicated and scared off, but they had lost a considerable number of men in the process. Sansa counted less than twenty remaining. Her tummy sank. _There’s no going back, you foolish girl,_ she scolded herself. _If you must die in the pursuit of your home, so be it._

“Over there!” Sergeant Beron pointed with his bloodied sword. The thick layer of snow dipped in one place where it piled along the stone wall. They reined their horses in, boots sinking into the snow as they rushed to enter the passageway. Sandor helped her down from her horse, leaving behind stains of blood on her riding skirts. 

The crypt doors were narrow, fitting only one man of a breadth with Sandor at a time. Clegane followed Beron, and Sansa and Wylla followed Clegane into the crypts side by side, Brienne trailing close behind. The rest of their remaining men entered, the last man slamming the heavy door shut behind him, enveloping the entire party in pitch-black darkness and silence.

“We can’t see a bloody thing,” Sandor growled somewhere ahead of her. His voice echoed in the cavernous crypt. Being in the crypts like this reminded Sansa of her younger self, being lured into the darkness only to have her brothers or Arya pop out at her from the shadows. It was still as dank and cold as she remembered.

“If anyone has a match,” she spoke, finding her voice had grown hoarse, “there should be candles that line the altars and graves.”

“Graves?” said a shaky voice from nearby, a soldier.

“Yes, you buffoon! We’re in a gods damned crypt!” hissed another unrecognizable voice.

“You never said nothin’ about no crypt!” the first voice exclaimed, sounding betrayed. 

“Oy! Shut your damn mouths and get to crawling,” ordered Sergeant Beron. “One candle’s all that’s needed. On your hands and knees, soldiers.”

There was some snickering at that, but no one dared make a snide comment after their sergeant. Sansa reached out her hands blindly, walking slowly in one direction, hoping it led to a wall and not deeper into the crypts. There were noises of stumbling and mumbled curses that bounced off the walls and echoed into the depths. Something cold touched her fingers, and she quickly recognized the carved stone to be a statue of a Stark king long dead.

“Found one!” called a girlish voice.

“Alright, bring it over here,” Sergeant Beron said.

“Where?”

“ _Over here_ , girl.”

More fumbling ensued, but after another moment their immediate vicinity became illuminated by the small candle. There was a high-pitched yelp from a soldier where a stone direwolf almost bit his bottom. Others hurried to find more candles while Sansa looked up at the statue before her.

It was of King Rickard Stark. _His sword is missing,_ she realized, a chill sweeping through her. Superstition had told that when a sword went missing, it meant the souls of the dead had become restless.

“Do you know the way?” Sandor rasped suddenly.

“Yes,” Sansa said, lighting a candle of her own. “Follow me.”

The weak light of the candle only managed to illuminate three or four paces ahead of her. Stone faces and snarling teeth would surprise her from the shadows every few heartbeats, and there was a sound of scurrying that could be heard from ahead of her. _Only rats,_ she soothed herself. Sandor walked close behind her and the rest of their party followed after him. She drew courage from his being so near. The only sounds coming from the living were of their boots marching upon the cold stone.

“Don’t leave me last!” a voice wailed from behind.

“I was here first, you get behind me!” said another.

“Both of you get in front,” Brienne exasperated.

Sansa picked up her pace, growing more and more familiar with each passing moment. _There must be a right turn here, any time now._ She took a few more quick steps until a glowing white face appeared from the shadows.

“A statue,” Sandor said from behind her, his grip tight on her shoulder.

Sansa fought to calm her beating heart. “We make a right here, then there should be some spiral stone steps not far along.” A thought came to her then. “The door... It might be vaulted from the outside,” she said grimly, her heart sinking.

“We’ll find a way through,” Sandor reassured.

When they finally came upon the broad stone staircase, Sandor took the lead.

They climbed. A railing lined the wall, but it felt damp and clammy to the touch. There were voices from below, whispered and frightened. “We’re almost there,” Sansa stated.

The old and heavy ironwood door finally came into light. Sandor waited until everyone was gathered to the level ground just before it.

“There’s no telling what awaits us out there. Be on your guard. Kill anyone who attacks you. You,” he said to Sansa. “Stay behind me.”

The young woman nodded obediently, pulling up her hood, fear gripping her more tightly than when she was deep within the crypts. Sandor turned to the door, blew out the candle, and pulled.

There was a loud creak of heavy iron, and Sansa let out a breath she did not know she was holding. The sun shone brightly through a haze of grey clouds overhead in the First Keep.

“How long were we in there?!” a soldier asked in horror.

The First Keep was a squat and round fortress long abandoned in its old age, so there was no surprise in finding it bereft of any living souls apart from their own. They marched through a lichyard and out past the Keep’s walls, gargoyles staring down at them as they made their way out towards the east gate.

A few paces away, just before the gate, stood some Bolton men making conversation. They were looking the wrong way. Sandor swept by her, his footsteps silent as he dragged the blade of his dagger across one of their necks from behind, then slipped that same dagger between the ribs of the next. Sergeant Beron’s knights took out the rest.

Sansa led them forward to the bridge between the armory and the Great Keep. Five archers seemed to materialize from the parapet, announcing their presence and loosing arrows at their company. The knights lifted their shields, Sansa going to hide behind Sandor as they ran toward the Great Keep and out to the Sept that her father had built for her mother. There were people strewn across the steps, women and children and elderly wailing their prayers to the gods. Everywhere they passed, the castle lay in ruin. It hurt her deeply to see the people so destitute, the conditions in shambles. The Great Hall was just ahead of them, and further still was the Southern Gate.

“We make for the main gates,” Sandor called. “Attack them from behind.”

“Aye, ser,” said Sergeant Beron from nearby.

Sandor seemed to blanch at that, but opted to say nothing.

On the sides of the great main gates were two huge crenelated bulwarks that flanked the arched pathway. “Send five good men to each tower,” Sandor ordered, “Take out any archers who stand watch.”

The sergeant divvied his men to attack each bulwark, leaving naught but eleven or so remaining. _They will have to do,_ Sansa thought, her spirits deflating. 

The main gates were wide open when they arrived. Wind whipped at them, bringing with it the stench of blood and iron and death. Bodies lay strewn across the battlements, some already being covered by the light snow. There were more banners of the flaming heart in the snow. _Stannis finally arrived._ Blood shown bright and pink in the snows, detached limbs scattered about in various places. There was crying and groaning and pleading, but there was still too much fighting for it to be safe to approach. Sansa looked out to the fields, noting some mounted knights who now rode directly for the main gates. Bronze Yohn rode forward gallantly, the wrists of Roose Bolton tied to his horse’s saddle as the former Warden in the North stumbled after him. Petyr Baelish followed close after atop his brown bay, seemingly unscathed from the battle. Behind him, Lothor Brune rode a grey warhorse, a lifeless body hanging from the horse's rear. 

“It’s over,” Sansa said, her voice shaking. _Harry, I am so sorry…_ His death was only just settling in. “It’s over,” she repeated, her voice coming out in a squeak. Tears fell from her eyes, their flow unstoppable. “It’s over,” she sobbed, her hands beginning to shake. Pale faces stared up at her in their deathly silence, faces mangled in pain and agony, young faces. _No more,_ a voice within her begged. _No more of this_.

Wylla went to her side, taking her hand in hers, trying to soothe her. “My lady, let us find a quiet place.”

Seeing Wylla, her green hair and her blonde eyebrows and her bright eyes, a face full of life, Sansa calmed down a bit. _She’s safe at least, thank the gods._ “You were so brave,” she told the girl through shaky breaths. 

Wylla smiled, her breath misting in the cold air. “Because of you, Sansa Stark.” 

“Welcome home.”


	17. Chapter 17

“Burn the dead,” King Stannis Baratheon had ordered. And they did.

The smoke was thick in the morning air, black ashes sweeping over the rolling, snowy hills like cracks in the earth. It had been a day since the battle, and the knights and soldiers were still recovering, the wounded reaching into the hundreds in number and the infirmary packed to capacity. Lord Wyman Manderly had miraculously survived his jump from the dais, correctly judging that the rope could not withstand his immense weight. _He survived first a stab wound to the neck and now a hanging,_ the rumor said, to many people’s astonishment. She had visited him in his grand bedchamber, the featherbed sagging under his form. He was weak, but he managed a smile to see her wearing the armor he had commissioned for her. Not everyone was so lucky as he, however. Many hopeless causes were moved to the Sept to die in the sight of the gods. Sansa could not bear the stench.

She knew there would be death, so she had packed an ebony woolen gown in her trunk before leaving the Gates of the Moon. Thinking of that castle made her heart clench. _My ties to the Vale have been severed for good._ She stared into the burning funeral pyre of Harrold Hardyng, Lord Protector of the Eyrie and Vale of Arryn, the last living descendant of the Arryn line. _Handsome, proud, and dead._ The young man had gone to battle smiling, tales of valor and gallantry inspiring his thirst for blood. _He was my husband, my first true husband,_ she thought, feeling cold despite the raging fire before her. _And he died for me._

Bronze Yohn was not happy about that.

The tall, bearded man was in talks with King Stannis, and Sansa expected the proud lord would bend his knee to the Baratheon King. His men felt out of place in Winterfell. She did not expect they wanted to stay and fight when the Lannister troops finally reached the castle, not after their first taste of battle. 

The Northmen, however, were more than sympathetic. Many approached her to pay their respects for her long dead family. The aged Whoresbane Umber and his joint castellan and brother Mors Umber shared their sorrow for her circumstances, the latter man frightening her with a chunk of dragonglass in place of a missing eye. Despite his grizzly appearance, Lord Mors Umber was the soul of courtesy. The one armed Lord Harwood Stout did not know her father very well, but offered his condolences nonetheless. It was the Lady Barbrey Dustin, however, who gave her some feeling of unease. 

The tall woman was comely for her age. She and her brother Roger Ryswell had shared some words with Sansa over supper the previous night.

“You look the splitting image of your mother,” the woman had said blankly. 

Sansa was weary from riding, her eyelids drooping for want of sleep, and she had responded with a curt “thank you,” before sensing some stern resolve in the Lady Dustin. 

“Lady Sansa,” a familiar voice called her back to the present. The fire was still crackling but waning.

“Lord Baelish.” She kept her face stern. _You killed him,_ she thought, _Another innocent._ Some force from within wanted to grab him by his grey doublet, pound into his chest for search of a beating heart somewhere within. But she stopped herself.

She knew she would find none.

“A pity,” the lithe man said, looking forlornly at the pyre. “He was a handsome young knight.”

“Did you come here to recite a eulogy?” Sansa asked, her guts twisting with hatred. 

Littlefinger raised one narrow brow at her. “King Stannis Baratheon requires your presence in the Great Hall.” His green eyes seemed to glimmer. “My guess would be he expects you to kneel before him. You do know what that means, don’t you, sweetling?”

Without a word, the young woman only stared into the dying flames, her late husband’s body indiscernible now. _I am to be named Wardeness of the North,_ that much was obvious to her. But that would come with a price, as did everything.

“I see.”

It seemed Petyr was confused at her tone. “Do be careful when you speak with him. He becomes fixated on the smallest slights, real or imagined.”

He led her to the courtyard outside the Great Hall where the banners still lay in tatters, the stones crumbling off one side of the wide stair. There were scratches and cracks in the large oaken doors. Every hall and keep was in need of repair, and heaps of dirty snow and ice required removal from all corners of the castle. It pained Sansa too see her home had suffered so much destruction. _In time,_ she reminded herself, _time and effort will see Winterfell restored to its former splendor._ If anyone had enough love and dedication to rebuild these walls, it was she.

Inside the Great Hall, King Stannis Baratheon was seated in her father’s old chair. A banner used to hang on the wall just behind that chair, a rich grey and white with the direwolf of House Stark. Nothing was left of that banner but for some torn and dusty cloth nailed to the wall.

A herald announced their entrance. “ _Lady Sansa Stark, accompanied by the Lord Petyr Baelish_ ” he rang, his voice echoing in the grand hall.

The Baratheon King looked nothing like his younger brother. Where King Robert had been heavy set with smiling features on his face and a head full of hair, King Stannis was lean and bald and frowned down at her with a severe expression. His cheeks were gaunt and deep purple circles sagged under his dark blue eyes. Atop his head was a crown of golden flames.

“Your grace,” she said with a curtsy. Petyr left her side to assume his place along one of the walls. There were some bannermen there, Bronze Yohn and Ser Marlon Manderly included, as well as Lady Dustin and Lord Stout and the Lords Umber.

“Lady Stark,” the King said. He sat straight-backed in the chair, considering her. “Have you met your sister yet?”

Her chest felt constricted. “Not yet, your grace.” She had not been able to locate the girl, though her attempts the day prior had been lackluster due to her fatigue.

The King turned his gaze to a small crowd of people huddled near the southern wall. “Lady Arya Stark. Step into the light.”

Sansa’s heart began to pound in her ears, drowning out her rushing thoughts. She stood rooted on the marble floor before the dais. The bannermen made way for her, a slim girl wearing a hooded cloak about her features. She was much taller than Sansa remembered. 

_Arya…?_

The girl removed her hood slowly.

A tear ran down Sansa’s cheek at the sight of her. The girl had black hair and there were tears streaming down her face, but…

“That is not my sister, your grace,” she choked, feeling as though her heart had collapsed within her chest. “That is our late castellan’s daughter. Jeyne Poole.”

The best friend from her childhood stared back at her with wide brown eyes, breathing hard. She seemed to have aged twice as quickly as any young woman her age had any right. The tip of her nose looked to be dirty with dust or soot. Her cheeks were sullen and gaunt, squeaking sobs coming from her throat. Sansa fought the urge to run to her.

“So she’s a liar.” Stannis’ voice was severe.

“Your grace,” Sansa recovered, remembering what Littlefinger had told her. “She is merely a young woman who has no doubt seen some hardships, if what they say of Ramsay Bolton is true.” She scrambled for her thoughts, wishing she knew more. “Have mercy on her, your grace,” she pleaded. 

King Stannis Baratheon frowned. “I have a proposition for you, Lady Stark.”

The Great Hall grew quiet but for Jeyne’s whimpering. Stannis stared hard at one of his guards before the girl was led away, then he turned back to Sansa. She straightened herself, wiping at the tears on her face.

“Your husband was killed on the field,” he began, “your brother and mother at the Twins, and your father at King’s Landing. That leaves you with the one true claim to the capital of the North.” He paused, and Sansa waited. “And now I hear tell the Lannister woman has sent her men to capture you. My brother Robert loved me little, but he was still my brother. She may have murdered him as well, as she had murdered Jon Arryn and Ned Stark. For these crimes there must be justice. You’ve brought many able soldiers with you here, soldiers I need to defend my claim to the Iron Throne. If you kneel to me, Lady Stark, I will name you Wardeness of the North, and our armies will be joined against our common foe.”

 _And if I don’t,_ she finished, _there will only be more bloodshed._ Looking down at her hands, she lifted her dark skirts and went to kneel before King Stannis Baratheon. The man stood to his great height and descended from the dais, going to stand before Sansa where she knelt. He unsheathed his sword in a practiced manner, resting the flat of the blade for a moment on each shoulder.

“Lady Sansa of House Stark,” he proclaimed, “I name you Wardeness of the North. You may rise.”

It was so simple, standing to her new position. Her chest felt tight when she met the King’s dark blue eyes. “Thank you, your grace.”

He held her gaze. “There is another matter. Since the Lords Mors and Whoresbane Umber took up their swords against Roose Bolton, the Greatjon Umber was killed at the Twins. I intended to keep Lord Roose captive to make a trade off, but I have no use for him now. Robb Stark was a usurper,” Sansa froze at that, “But he was your brother nonetheless. I leave Lord Bolton’s fate to you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later, when the snows had calmed and the sun reached its peak, Sansa found Jeyne Poole in the Great Keep. She was seated near a fireplace in the common room.

“Jeyne?”

The young girl looked up from her cup of steaming tea, her face flushed. She set the cup down at a nearby table and stood immediately, bowing her head. “My lady,” came her high-pitched voice.

Closing the few paces between them, Sansa took the girl roughly into her arms, hugging her tightly. “I never thought I’d see you again,” she whispered by her hair. _She is so thin,_ Sansa thought, feeling the bumpy ridges of the ribs on her back.

Shaking hands came to wrap around her. “Oh, Sansa!” the girl finally sobbed. They just held each other, the heat from the fireplace washing over their embrace.

After some moments, Sansa replaced the cup of tea in her hands. “We must catch up,” she said, sounding for an instant like the girl from her youth. They sat side by side on the cushioned sofa.

“Is it true?” Sansa probed delicately. “They say that Ramsay was cruel to you…”

The young woman seemed to flinch at the sound of his name. Her answer was to shake her head. 

“We need not talk about it.” Sansa wrapped her arms about the girl’s frail shoulders.

Jeyne did not speak for a long moment. Then she asked, “What about you? I saw you in the Great Hall. He escorted you.”

Confused, Sansa moved to look at the girl. “Petyr Baelish?”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes wide. “Did he send you to be trained, too?”

Sansa stared hard at her long lost friend, sitting still for a moment before shaking her head with confusion. “Jeyne, I…” _Trained?_ “What happened to you?”

Jeyne looked crestfallen. “H-he told me,” she whimpered, “all maids needed to be trained for their wedding night. B-broken through?” she said, searching Sansa’s face.

Her tummy twisted nauseatingly. She wanted to wretch when she shook her head at the poor girl, going to hold her tight again as the sobs wracked through her body. Staring wide-eyed into empty space, her pulse loud in her ears with rage and disgust, Sansa fought to calm herself. There was a wetness on her cheeks, but she dared not move her hands from the girl’s shoulders to wipe at it. She pulled her voice up from some depth in her soul.

“You’re safe now, Jeyne. I’m Wardeness of the North and I’ll make sure you’re safe. Ramsay is locked away so he won’t hurt you again.”

After some time, the girl had stilled, but Sansa continued to run a soothing hand over Jeyne’s back, lost in her own thoughts. There were many things she needed to do now as Wardeness of the North and she hardly knew where to begin. Prisoners of war were packed in the jail cells, waiting for sentencing. _One man is missing from those cells,_ said a dark voice from within. _One man, behind all of this suffering._

She needed to find her guards.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The prison cells below the Guard’s Keep were dark and cold and cramped. An icy draft blew in from the top of the stair, causing Sansa’s cloak to stir around her skirts. The rattling of chains could be heard from the depths, the desperate groans and pleas of surrender. A guardsman held a lit taper high ahead of Sansa and Brienne, leading them to their destination. Sandor Clegane followed just behind her, his boots making soft splashes in the puddles of melted snow in the corridor. Nothing could be seen past the bars of the cells unless the taper was brought close, so dark was it in these dungeons. They could only listen – to the soft whispering, the muffled whimpering, the desperate pleas and cries. From one cell, though…

They heard nothing.

“Bring him out,” she said.

A dark shape was slumped in the corner. The guardsman was silent when he retrieved his keys, going to unlock the cell. Sandor and Brienne entered immediately, the light from the taper reflecting in their silver armor of the Winged Guard. They pulled the dark shape to its feet, its hands tied, dragging it out of the cell. Sansa retraced her steps outside. 

People stared as her guards followed her out to the godswood. Some followed her as she went through the main Iron Gate that led into the woods, passing by oaks, ironwoods, and sentinels until she came upon the center of the grove. The ancient weirwood from her childhood stood in the center, standing over a pool of black water. The young woman finally stopped and turned. 

Roose Bolton’s eyes were as pale as two moons, his cold stare piercing Sansa. There was dirt and dried blood on his pasty white skin, his black hair greasy and disorderly. The black ringmail and spotted pink cloak he wore were covered in filth and grime. And above all else, he stank.

Sandor spoke up. “What do you mean to do with him, little bird?” His voice sounded uneasy, his grey eyes for once unclear as to her intention.

“Bare his chest.” Her voice sounded cold to her own ears.

Though unsure, Sandor listened. Brienne held the man still as Sandor ripped a savage line down the man’s hauberk with a dagger, using all his strength to cut into the thick fabric. Bolton was hairless beneath the hauberk. Patches of dark purple ovals marred his pale skin.

“Give me your dagger,” Sansa Stark ordered.

Brienne and Sandor stood unmoving, staring wide-eyed at Sansa. 

“My lady,” the straw-haired woman said with trepidation, “Let me do it.”

The skin on her arms was tingling. She held out her hand, and for a long moment no one moved. Cold steel touched her palm, and she looked up to see Sandor had given her his dagger. 

_Up and under the rib cage,_ she reminded herself, her heart beginning to pound. The guards held Roose steady at each of his arms, his naked chest bared to her. _Is that where you stabbed Robb? Is that where you ran your dagger through my brother?_ She stepped closer, the grip of the dagger hard and heavy in her fist. Her breath misted in front of her. They had drawn a crowd of people to the godswood, all staring and waiting expectantly for what she would do. Whether she would kill him.

Sansa placed a steadying, gloved hand on her enemy’s chest, feeling how his heart pounded just beneath. She raised the dagger, the sharp point glinting in the winter light. Her hand was shaking. She tried to picture the point piercing his skin, drawing blood. She stood there breathing deeply for long moments.

Too long.

A tear of frustration slid down her cheek. 

The man muttered something under his breath.

Sansa’s blue eyes found his, questioning.

“ _…as pretty and weak as your lady mother._ ”

Something changed in her.

“Brienne,” Sansa stated in a calm voice. “Unsheathe Oathkeeper.”

The Maid of Tarth breathed a sigh of relief, the blade singing as she drew it from its golden sheath. Sandor threw Roose Bolton over a decaying log in the snow, one thick boot pressing down on the man's back. _The steel has seeped from my skin to my heart,_ said a distant voice from within. Brienne positioned herself, the black valyrian steel like a stark contrast against the white snow.

“Any last words?” Sansa asked.

“May your blade be sharp, Lady Stark.”

She did not flinch when the weapon struck.

From the Guest House overlooking the wood, a shadow moved in a window.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The snow came down in flurries in the courtayrd. The Guest House loomed just outside of the godswood, its tall stone walls heated by the hotsprings that broiled just beneath. She made her way through its messy halls, ripped tapestries and broken pottery lining the floors. Sandor and Brienne followed on her heels.

“Lady Sansa,” Brienne tried, “You don’t seem well.”

“Wait here,” she told her guards when they made it to an oaken door.

“You’re not safe on your own,” Sandor rasped.

She looked up at his scarred features and the ruined corner of his mouth twitched. _Then why do you plan to leave?_ she wanted to ask, but instead she said nothing, only opened and closed the door behind her.

The chamber was hued in shadows, the only light coming from a large paneled window overlooking the godswood. A canopy hung over the featherbed to her right, the sheets and coverlet untouched. A shield and two crossed swords adorned the wall opposite, rusted from underuse. Light from the outside world illuminated the broad oaken desk a few paces away, a thick layer of dust resting on the abandoned scrolls and tomes that sat there. A lone vase stood there for decoration, the glass faded and dirty through the years.

“That was quite the display.” Petyr Baelish stood with his hands behind his back, looking at Sansa with calculating green eyes. “For a moment there I almost thought you’d run him through yourself. It was a mistake to try it. Now your people think you’re weak.”

She felt a heat of humiliation crawl up her chest, but she kept her voice steady.

“Killing a man does not make one strong.”

He smirked at that, his pointy beard tilting on his chin. “Common folk only understand outward displays of strength, sweetling. Kings and lords are not much different from them in that respect.”

Sansa took some steps towards the window, thinking carefully on her words.

“You think King Stannis finds me weak?” she asked, looking out at the puddle of blood left behind in the snow.

“You, personally? Of course. But your army is strong. And he needs more men at this pivotal time. Bronze Yohn is restless, however,” he continued, a hint of despair in his voice. “I don’t think he means to stay here long. You stand to lose half your men if he decides to return to Runestone.”

Ice ran through her veins. She looked at Littlefinger, his eyes never leaving her.

He continued. “There’s no telling how King Stannis will take it if half your men abandon you. Against Cersei’s army… it could mean life or death. He may do better to give you up entirely.”

“What are you suggesting?” Sansa asked, feeling sick. 

“Sansa,” he said in a breathy voice, going to her, “I can give these men incentive to stay, if only to meet Cersei’s forces. It’s coin that they want, and it’s coin I can give them.”

_You need him,_ a voice within her cried, _once again, the man who has caused your friends and family the most harm has you cornered._ Her heart was sinking.

“In exchange for-”

“Your hand,” he finished, covering it with his own, “Marry me, Sansa Stark. Haven’t I kept all my promises to you? Haven’t I given you Winterfell? Marry me, and one day you may even be queen.”

“And you king?” she exasperated, ripping her hand from his. _No, not again. Whatever it takes, whatever I lose. Not again._ Some demon within her had taken hold of her senses. Her pulse was pounding in her ears. _This is worse than battle,_ she thought, _this is worse than war._ “No,” she stated, “No, Petyr Baelish. I will not marry you.”

Rage flickered across the man’s features, and Sansa could have sworn the patches of grey above his ears turned whiter. “You’d give up half your army… You’d rather die than marry me? Don’t be foolish.” He grabbed at her. “You want me, Sansa, I felt it in your kiss, your body-”

“You fool,” she spat, twisting away, “Your obsession with my mother has rendered you blind. I’ve detested you since I learned of your betrayal, against my father,” his green eyes grew wide at her, “Yes,” she nodded, “Yes, I know. Sometimes, Petyr Baelish, in this game of thrones, even the humblest pieces can have wills of their own,” she repeated his words, “And sometimes they refuse to make the moves you’ve planned for them.”

A loud crash sounded at the post of the featherbed, the vase lying shattered in a thousand pieces on the floorboards. She screamed when Littlefinger grabbed her, throwing her down roughly on the featherbed in his rage. “You little whore,” she heard him say as she struggled against him, pounded at him-

“Let her go,” grated a shadow from above, “or you’ll be tasting steel from the back of your mouth.”

The point of Sandor’s longsword was at the base of Littlefinger’s skull, the latter man lifting his hands as he moved to stand. Sansa went to her elbows on the featherbed, chest heaving. Petyr stared at her, something manic in his eyes. A shiver ran down her spine when he started to laugh.

“Of course,” he cackled, “Of course, sometimes a woman’s cunt is worth more than a man’s coin. Is this how you mean to keep your army? With your cunny?” 

He winced when the blade dug deeper into the base of his skull, drawing blood. “Speak of her that way again and I won’t wait.” Sandor’s eyes had darkened with wrath, his scars twisting in a grimace. Brienne stood at the threshold of the door, waiting for Sansa to say something. Before she could utter a word, however, Petyr bolted across the room.

He stood under the shield that adorned the wall, one of the swords missing from the mantle. Littlefinger held it pointed at Sandor in desperation, breathing heavy in his swordsman’s wide stance.

Sandor Clegane’s laugh was the sound of snarling dogs in a pit. “That didn’t work the first time,” he rasped, amusement in his cruel voice. “What makes you think it’ll work now?”

Unbelievably, Petyr Baelish made a stab at Sandor, attempting to strike near his head. Sandor laughed again, parrying the old rusted blade so hard it was knocked from the smaller man’s fingers. Littlefinger was pushed against the wall, Sandor’s blade at his neck. Sansa crawled across the featherbed, watching with wide eyes, her throat tight. Sandor made to drag the blade across his neck, but Sansa spoke before he did.

“Spare him.”

Perspiration dripped from Littlefinger’s brow. Green eyes pierced her own, a silent plea. “Spare him,” she repeated, an overwhelming curiosity taking hold. “I want to see if what he says is true. I want to see,” she slid off the featherbed, smoothing her skirts, “if Bronze Yohn will truly follow him for his coin.”

Something told her they would not, something within that knew Littlerfinger for the manipulative liar that he was.

The sword lowered reluctantly, and Littlefinger smoothed out his jerkin quickly. Brienne stepped aside when the man paced out of the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Out in the courtyard, just outside the Hunter’s Gate, a crowd of soldiers and knights and lords had gathered to watch those departing the castle. Ser Marlon Manderly stood by with Bronze Yohn Royce, Sergeant Beron and Lady Dustin just behind them and, standing on a raised platform just beyond with bannermen at his side, King Stannis Baratheon himself. They all watched as those departing mounted their horses, their packs in tow, readying themselves to leave through the Hunter’s Gate.

A handful, at most.

Littlefinger gave one final look to Sansa before hiking up the hood of his fur-trimmed cloak and turning to ride off into the wolfswood, the dark green of the fabric disappearing into the forest, sellswords following in his wake. The further he disappeared from view, the lighter her shoulders became. _Ride hard, Petyr Baelish,_ she thought, remembering the howl of wolves in the deep of night, _ride hard if you have the will to live._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

More bodies were burned that night. But where the ones from earlier had been dead, these were still alive when the flames swallowed them whole. Their screams of agony could be heard all the way to the Great Hall while the castle ate their supper quietly. Sansa could hardly abide them, having trouble swallowing her food as she pictured their charred and flailing bodies. Someone had mounted Roose Bolton’s head on a pike outside the gates. Ramsay Bolton had been among those burned at the stake, and his screams had been loudest of all as his father’s dead face stared down at him. 

R’hllor was a cruel and thirsty god.

Sansa thought it a most heinous and brutal rite. She could never see herself worshipping a god that required so much sacrifice. Nearly all of the prisoners in their cells had been burned for the red god. A hobbled, broken man remained in the cells, however. One of the other prisoners had begged for a more merciful death for him, before the old gods. She had only seen him once, briefly, when they had descended to find Roose Bolton. His hair was a flash of white in the darkness.

The young woman put down her spoon, her appetite leaving her completely. She excused herself from the trestle table, bidding the lords good night. Her muscles still ached from riding the day before, her hands sore from gripping the reigns so tight. Her featherbed called to her from the Great Keep.

The bedchamber from her youth was the first piece of the castle that Sansa had ordered to be restored. King Stannis had taken the Warden’s bedchamber, but Sansa preferred the comfort of her own quarters. It was still too painful to be in her parents’ bedchambers. The cracked mirror had been replaced and wiped down, and the formerly torn coverlet was gone, a new, thick woolen blanket in its place. The hearth had been lit, illuminating the room in a warm glow.

She had just hung up her cloak when a knock came to her door.

Sansa approached with some caution, a delicate hand finding the handle and pulling the oaken door open just an inch.

The scarred half of his face was in shadow where he looked down at her. Sansa opened the door a little more. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.

Large fingers pushed the oaken door further. It moved unresisting, and in the next moment Sandor Clegane was in her bedchambers, barring the door shut behind him. Sansa felt helpless when he took her in his embrace, her body succumbing to him against her better judgment. His cruel lips found hers, and she drank in his kiss with such a thirst one would think she was lost in a desert for years. Strong hands dug into the bodice of her ebony gown, jolting her as the laces ripped from their fastenings, her naked chest bared to the waist. Sansa was gasping for breath between his kisses, his hands sliding around her waist, lifting her only to deposit her yielding body onto the featherbed of her youth.

Sandor said not a word as he loosened the ties of his jerkin, pulling the dark leather roughly from his hulking chest and torso. The firelight played off the hills and dips of his muscles, a trail of thick, dark hair leading into his breeches, his arousal apparent there. The sword belt made a loud thump when it hit the floorboards. Then his hands were at her feet, pulling off her slippers one by one. He gripped her ankles for a moment before tugging on the hem of her skirt roughly, her dress dragging down the length of her body and falling to an onyx heap on the floor.

Sansa’s chest felt tight when he dragged her smallclothes down her long legs. It was the first time she had ever been utterly naked in his presence. She lay there unmoving, waiting, her heart tearing a ragged hole in her chest. She wanted him, needed him even. 

She loved him. More than anything, she loved him.

The breeches were gone when his massive form crawled above her, her legs opening for him on their own accord. His lips found her neck, one hand sliding through her auburn hair. She sighed when he stretched her slowly, her back arching to meet his length. Her nails went to dig into his back, sliding along the heavy muscles there, the scars smooth under her fingertips. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, fucking her deeply and maddeningly slow. His lips found her jaw, and the hand that was in her hair went to cup her chin. He found a wetness there.

“Does it hurt?” he asked hoarsely, slowing his movements to a halt.

“Yes,” Sansa choked, though it was not her body that was in pain.

Grey eyes found hers, pupils dilated with lust mixed with a hint of concern. “What is it?” he grated.

Something pulled at her, tearing at her senses, fighting to leave her lips. _I mustn’t…_

“Don’t leave me,” she pleaded, a tear tickling a path down her cheek. "I don't feel safe unless I know you're near."

A rough thumb wiped the tear away, his hand cupping her cheek. “Little bird,” he rasped,

“I'll never leave you. Enough of this,” he held her there, wiping the last of her tears away.

She grinned brightly for the first time since she had arrived to Winterfell. His lips found hers again, kissing her softly, his hand cradling her jaw and one of her own going to thread through his black hair. He nipped playfully on her bottom lip, and Sansa giggled at that, her heart feeling less heavy in her chest, legs wrapping tightly around his waist. One warm hand slid down her side to squeeze her bottom, and then she gasped when he flipped her over on her tummy.

Kisses landed on the nape of her neck. They traveled slowly down her spine, covering every inch of her. She closed her eyes at the soothing sensation, missing his thickness inside her. Sandor slid one hand beneath her hips, using his strength to pull them up so that she found herself on her knees. The palm of one hand found her bottom, the other pressing into the featherbed, holding his weight up against her back, his chest emitting heat against her spine. A thumb spread her cheek as he slid his girth into her again, his lips leaving soft kisses on her shoulder blade. A moan was ripped from her throat at the sensation, the new position allowing him to reach her deeply, and soon he was fucking into her faster, his hips smacking against the backs of her thighs.

She almost collapsed when he went to his elbow, pushing her down lower beneath him. Sansa felt his hot breath growing ragged between her shoulder blades. The hand on her bottom slid around to her mound, slipping between her lips to rub her nub, never slowing his thrusts. “That’s it, girl,” he whispered into her back when he felt her legs begin to tremble under his touch. Her voice caught in her throat when her pleasure pulsed around his cock, waves of heat spreading through her body. Sandor moved his hand from her lips and went to both elbows, pushing her down flat into the coverlet, the sweat on his chest and abdomen slick on her back, fucking into her roughly for a few more moments before spilling himself into her completely.

Long after, when they had exhausted themselves and sleep threatened to overcome them, Sansa curled into Sandor’s warmth. She threw an arm and a leg around him in case he meant to leave.

But he held true to his word.


	18. Chapter 18

On the surface, the black pool beneath the weirwood had frozen over. A thin layer of snow rested there as it descended from the white morning skies, and soon the pool would be covered entirely. Sansa always knew those waters to be warm and inviting, the hot springs that fed them ever bubbling from deep below. Winter, however, overcame that warmth. 

She turned away from the pool, the fur of her cloak brushing the cold skin of her cheeks. A block had been placed before the weirwood for the last prisoner in the cells. Hooded figures stood to witness, King Stannis and the northern lords among them. A couple of guardsmen led out the old man to kneel before the block. He was a thin, frail man with pasty skin and hair white as bone and he sunk his knees into the snow. From where Sansa could see, he was missing many fingers, and the curl of his lips into his mouth and the hollow of his cheeks betrayed a number of missing teeth. Jeyne Poole stood somewhere far off with the spectators. She was crying uncontrollably. 

The gloved hand of one of the guardsmen pulled the old man’s cloak back from his neck, then pushed him to stick his head across the block. Stannis trudged over through the snow, stopping to stand not two paces away from the prisoner. He unsheathed his sword with apparent ease, and when he spoke Sansa’s blood ran cold.

“Your sister begged you be spared from the fires of R’hllor, Theon Greyjoy, though no man should be exempt from his judgment. But I see you’ve paid dearly for your treachery and, for your aid in guiding my army to Winterfell, I give you a noble, northern death before the heart tree. Have you any final words, say them now.”

Sansa stared as though frozen in shock as the old man simply shook his head. _Theon…?_ It could not be. Winterfell’s ward, the smiling and handsome and arrogant young Theon should not have been more than five and twenty. To Sansa, he looked almost sixty. Her tummy twisted horribly, unable to conceive of the tortures that had caused such a transformation in him. Suddenly, Theon craned his neck to find her face, deep brown eyes meeting hers beneath his ratty white hair, almost devoid of life. _Almost._ A flash of steel lit the corner of her eye, but before Stannis could swing his sword she found her voice. 

“Your grace! Your grace, please, may I say some words before…before?”

Stannis stared at her with tired eyes. After a moment, he lowered his sword and nodded. 

Sansa lifted her skirts over her thick leather boots as she hurried over, kneeling opposite Theon in the snow. He had lowered his wide eyes, his chin shaking from cold or fear Sansa could not tell. She lifted a delicate hand to his face. “Theon?”

He stared at the stump beneath him for long moments before she noticed a movement. _A nod_. “Yes,” he croaked suddenly, “Yes, I am Theon.”

Heart beating hard in her ribcage, Sansa leaned in close knowing she did not have much time. “My brothers,” she whispered, “is it true what they say? You spared them?”

Theon was breathing hard now, unable to look at her. “I… not spared. They escaped me.”

Tears welled in her eyes. A thought flickered past her mind, of what would have occurred had the boys not escaped, but there was no use of that begrudging hatred now that he was facing his death, after all that he had suffered. Her brothers were alive and that was all that mattered to her now. She dropped her hand from his cheek, making to stand but then Theon spoke again.

“R-Ramsay?” he asked, his breath hitching. 

Sansa looked down at him. “He burned in the flames,” she said, and in the moments before the blade struck, she could have sworn he was smiling.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days that followed were solemn and cold. The snows did not cease falling, which made hunting difficult for the soldiers as they were made to ride blindly into the snow for search of food. On occasion, not all would find their way back. _We need hunters, though._ Their food stores were meager at best, but Sansa had ordered the restoration of the glass gardens and was hopeful the hot springs would keep the soil moist and warm. _Enough to grow fruits and vegetables,_ she thought, staring out at the large edifice from the Main Hall. Thick snow covered its glass roof, but soon the heat would melt that away and allow for some sunlight. _That is, if the sun ever shows its face again._

It was crowded in the common room after the midday meals. Jeyne sat in an old wooden chair tending to some needlework while various soldiers and guardsmen and squires lounged on the benches, rolling dice and speaking in hushed tones. The Guest House, Great Keep, stables, and kitchens had been filled to capacity with knights and lords, and many soldiers had needed to find shelter in the nearby Wintertown. King Stannis’ men numbered far less than the Northmen. They mostly kept to their own allegiances – the Umber men somberly drinking the barrels dry, Stannis’ men looking stern and tired as they obeyed their King’s orders, and Bronze Yohn’s men shivering and out of place in the North. _But they wouldn’t risk the ride back South. Not unless Manderly’s ships awaited them on the White Knife._ The long ride south would be disastrous, and with Manderly swearing allegiance to King Stannis, they were not like to have their ships take half of his army away before Cersei’s forces could finally reach them. 

No, the knights and soldiers of the Vale would remain here, cold and afraid.

Though the snows were getting harsher and Cersei’s army closer, Sansa was ironically feeling less cold and less afraid than ever. Since the night he had come to her bedchambers, Sandor had continued to visit her in the deep of night, warming her featherbed and easing her nerves. He made her hopeful.

“Lady Sansa,” said a voice from behind her. She turned to find Brienne wearing her armor. “Your presence is requested in the Great Hall.”

“Is it Stannis?” she asked as they walked. 

“Yes, my lady.”

She knew how Brienne bore no love for the Baratheon king. She had always claimed it was a shadow in the shape of Stannis that murdered Renly in cold blood. For Sansa’s sake, however, she tolerated the King’s presence. “Do you know what he could want?”

Brienne seemed to grimace. “He means to make a proposal, I believe, my lady.”

Sansa hesitated. “A marriage proposal? Surely not so soon after I am widowed…?” Brienne said nothing, only continued walking. Sansa’s mind began to race. She did not want to marry again, not so soon, not after everything she had been through. The broken pieces of Winterfell were only just being mended, she was only just getting used to her new position. _The Northmen have little faith in him, perhaps. They are wavering._ She remembered how they had looked in disgust at the charred corpses outside the gates, the sacrifices to the Red God that was no god of theirs. _He means to marry me to one of his bannermen…_

Long trestle tables had been set in the Great Hall. It was cleaner and brighter, the floors having been scrubbed clean and the mirrors and candelabras replaced along the walls. The tatters of banners past had been removed, and now the walls were barren but spotless. Stannis was seated at the head of one of the tables while lords lined the benches to the sides. Ser Wyman Manderly was there, as well as Bronze Yohn and the lords Umber and Lady Dustin, her brother Ryswell, and Lord Harwood Stout, among others. A maid was filling their goblets while some guardsmen stood along the walls, Sandor included. He stood not far from the table, a hand resting on the pommel of his longsword. His gaze followed her to a vacant seat on the opposite head of the table.

Those nearby greeted her courteously when she was seated, and she looked across to where Stannis was speaking with Mors Umber. From what she could hear, they had planned to attack Cersei’s forces from two directions. The main force would be visible from the main gates, but another would attack unawares from the Wolfswood in the northwest in order to strike from the rear. A solid plan, it seemed. When finally the King turned his attention to her, she straightened. 

“My lords, I’d like a moment alone with the Lady Stark,” he said. While they waited for the hall to empty itself, Sansa locked eyes with Sandor, silently bidding he stay behind. The scarred man did not move from his post, blending seamlessly into the background with King Stannis’ guards. 

When they were alone, Stannis spoke. “With the death of Roose Bolton, Castle Hornwood was given over to my command. That castle remains lordless to this day, ever since the Bolton bastard left the Lady Hornwood to starve.” There was some silence after that, but he continued. “Lord Halys Hornwood is dead, as well as his trueborn son Daryn. I’ve since elected to recognize his natural born son, Larence, as trueborn.”

The young, curly haired boy was not with them now, but Sansa remembered how he often stared at her unabashedly during supper, as he had done ever since he had arrived to the Gates of the Moon. “That settles the matter of inheritance well, your grace. My congratulations to the boy,” Sansa said, emphasizing the last word. 

Stannis stared at her with a stern expression. “You may have guessed what this has to do with you,” he said blankly. “I’d like you to consider a betrothal with the new Lord Hornwood.”

Her tummy sank. _Be courteous,_ she thought, _do not disrespect him._ “Your grace, I have only just become a widow and Winterfell is in dire need of repair. I will consider the betrothal, but I do not think Lord Royce and the men of the Vale will take kindly to this arrangement so soon after their lord has been killed.” _That will work,_ she assured herself, _he needs his men._ “Your grace, while it may guarantee the northmen to your cause, you may stand to lose the allegiance of the Vale.”

There was some silence from across the trestle table. The bones of his jaw moved as if he were grinding his teeth. “Very well,” he finally said, “consider it, and in time we will broach the topic anew.”

“I will, your grace.” She curtsied when she stood. _I am free, for now,_ she sighed. Footsteps sounded from nearby as she made to leave the hall.

“You got yourself out of that one nice and easy,” Sandor grated at her side. They walked together across the courtyard back to the common rooms in the Main Hall.

She felt disheartened. “It won’t be long until I am put in that position again.”

“If he hadn’t a wife, Stannis would marry you himself,” he huffed, his breath misting in the air. “Consider yourself lucky.”

“In what way?” she countered. “I must risk the ire of my bannermen by turning down proposals for gods know how long.”

Sandor’s voice sounded stony when he spoke. “Then accept one and move on with it.”

She felt hurt by that. As a girl, she had always imagined she would marry for love. Sansa was a grown woman now, married twice, and neither had been for love. _Only politics._ If she could marry for love, she would have married Sandor Clegane in an instant and they would live here, together in Winterfell, until they greyed of old age. 

“I could marry a thousand times,” she said, “and it would never be the right one.”

He regarded her when they made their way up the steps of the Main Hall, but said nothing. It was warm inside the hall. Jeyne was still there where she had been seated, speaking to a maid about her embroidery. People were huddled in their furs throughout various corners and tables, lounging around with nothing to do but talk and play. There were some noises coming from a group huddled by the hearth, and Sansa saw a flash of green hair there. 

“Do another one!” Wylla said, gripping the jerkin of a poor soldier who sat cross-legged before the fire. Others were observing nearby with rapt attention. The seated man had his back to Sansa.

“If Sergeant Beron finds out you’re doing this, Fid-” said a freckle-faced soldier on his left, but the seated man cut him off.

“Who’s gonna tell him, Hedge? You? I’ll light your arse aflame and say the Red God made me do it-”

“Made you do _what?_ ” Everyone was quiet when Sansa approached.

The one named Fid spoke. “Nothing, m’lady! Nothing at all, just playing some letters, is all.” He gathered something that looked like woodchips into his arms.

Wylla scoffed. “Letters? No, my lady. They were _casting,_ is what it’s called. Go on and do another for the Wardeness!”

Fid glared daggers at the girl, his face turning red as his hair. “It’s only a game-”

“I’d like to see for myself,” Sandor rasped beside her. Fid and Hedge and the other soldiers seemed to shrink when he spoke. 

“What sort of game is this? I have never heard of casting,” Sansa admitted.

“Tell her, Fid,” Hedge said.

“You tell her!”

“Not a chance!”

“You,” Sandor pointed to Fid. “Tell her.”

The man sighed. He did not look a day older than thirty, and his beard was a shade darker than his flimsy hair. “Fine. It’s not a game. It’s… sorcery. Ish. There aren’t any players, unless you consider the cards themselves players. You’ve got to have the gift of casting to throw the deck.”

Sansa furrowed her brow in confusion. Seeing her face, Wylla spoke up. “It’s like a prophecy, my lady. Like looking into the future.” Her blonde brows were lifted in excitement. 

“What are those in your hands?” Sandor asked.

Fid looked down at the woodchips in his arms, large slabs as big as his hands. There were about five or six of them. 

“We use what we can for the deck,” Hedge commented, “usually blank parchment but there’s none around.”

“ _We_?” Fid huffed, “ _You_ do nothing but watch and get me in trouble.”

Instead of listening to them squabble further, Sansa spoke. “Show us a casting, then, if you will.” _A peek into the future may come in handy at a time such as this._

“M’lady,” Fid said with some caution, “the deck, it’s… been a bit unpredictable of late.”

“You mean to say you’re afraid of some broken pieces of bark?” Sandor said sardonically.

Fid gave her guard a measuring look. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The soldier then turned to face the hearth. Those who were watching gathered closer and Sansa had looked over their shoulders curiously. Fid threw a piece of wood into the fire.

And the fire threw it back.

She gasped at the smoking piece of charred wood that now lay at Fid’s feet. He blew on it a couple of times before picking it up, flipping it over to reveal a picture inscribed in the wood. “Looks like some sort of flower,” he guessed, “something dripping from it. Water, maybe blood, can’t tell. It’s useless.” 

“It’s a rose,” Sansa noted, fascinated. “Look at its thorns.”

“That tells us nothing,” Hedge intoned. “Do another.”

Fid made an exasperated noise, pulling out another chip and throwing it into the flames. It was a moment before it was spit back out, catching the caster on his shin and singeing his breeches. “Ow!” he jumped. There was some laughter, much to his frustration. He picked up the piece, squinting at it. “It’s a bird, or something. It’s got a fish in its mouth.”

“You’re the worst caster I’ve ever met,” Hedge insulted, looking over his shoulder. “Does a bird have teeth?”

“I’m the _only_ caster you’ve ever met, you dunce.”

It may have had wings, but it did not resemble a bird to Sansa. _A dragon, more like,_ she thought, remembering pictures from her books as a child. She was amazed by the tricks these men were pulling, but the cards were little more than pretty pictures. Fid and Hedge were tugging at one another now, fighting over the last card.

“I’ll do one more and that’s that. It’s angry with me already,” he tugged at his burnt breeches.

“What is?” Sansa asked.

“The deck, m’lady.”

“Enough of this buggering farce,” Sandor rasped, his hand going around her arm. “Leave these fools to their tricks.”

“Wait,” Sansa hesitated. “One more.”

Despite the impatience writ on his face, Sandor relented.

When Fid threw the next piece into the fire, he dragged Hedge’s lanky body in front of him, using him as a shield. It was no use, though. The light of the great hearth had been extinguished, the piece of wood was but a small heap of ashes. Nothing but icy cold came from that place now.

There was some ruckus from the other side of the common room. An entire table filled with Whoresbane Umber’s men had been shaken to standing and cursing, their tankards turned and ale spilling onto the floorboards.

Hedge stared dumbly at the ashes. “Aye, don’t have to meet any others. You’re the worst.”

“Give me a hand, here,” Fid called, going over to the trestle table. Lord Umber’s men were standing around it looking angry and confused. Sansa followed as Fid and Hedge and the others walked over. Hooking their hands under one side of the table, the men pulled.

To no avail. “You there, the one with the muscles,” Fid said. He was talking about Sandor. “A hand, if you will, ser?”

Sandor growled as they parted ways for him. His large hands went under the table and, with the help of the others, flipped it to standing.

“Seven hells.”

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. There, engraved upon the underside of the trestle table, was a large, intricately carved image of a man. Unlike any other man, however, this one had the face of something… _dead._ He held in his bony hands the grip of a greatsword pointed down towards his feet and, behind him, there were many others just like him, some with swords and some without, their rotting bodies at various stages of decay. It looked to be an army of the dead. 

That was not the worst of it, though.

The entire carving, it seemed, was coated in ice. Droplets of water slid down the woodwork. The eyes of the man were two crystal orbs of frozen water that chilled Sansa to her bones. His armor and breastplate were sheets of ice, and the blade of his sword was a long, jagged icicle. 

“Looks like a snowman,” Fid said.

“A bloody murderous snowman!” Hedge yelled fearfully. “We’re all doomed!”

The sound of heavy footsteps approached them from the entrance, and Sansa looked to see Brienne again, heading straight towards her with a heightened awareness about her. “My lady, I – what in the world?” Her sapphire blue eyes widened in alarm at the upturned table.

“Ignore it,” Sansa said, worried at her expression. “What’s happened?”

Brienne dragged her gaze away from the image. “A messenger rode in from the Lannister Army. They’re but a day’s ride away now.”

The soldiers had scattered at her last sentence. “What is his message?” she asked, growing impatient. 

“He asked that King Stannis hand you over. He was denied, of course,” she said, noting the look on her face. “But we must make ready for war.”

“We’re ready now,” Sandor Clegane said with ferocity.

Sansa felt a hollow in her chest. _Another battle, but hopefully the last._ There would be more bloodshed, more prisoners, more burnings and sacrifices. _Winterfell is turning into a graveyard,_ said a small, sad voice from within. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The hood of her cloak covered her auburn braid, the fur warming her shoulders and neck. Sansa looked down at the brown, leather gloves that gripped the reigns around her chestnut mare. She had to loosen her hold every few minutes, her hands tensing with nerves on their own accord. The horse beneath her could sense her fear, so she tried to calm herself. _It will be over quickly,_ she tried to reassure herself, looking around at the mounted knights. Clouds of mist from the breaths of knights and soldiers appeared everywhere in the courtyard. Stannis’ men looked worn and hungry, while Bronze Yohn’s men appeared worried and unsure. Whoresbane’s men looked far too old, while Mors’ men looked far too young. There was only two-thirds of their force defending the Main Gate while the rest had been sent to an encampment in the Wolfswood.

Sandor Clegane was astride his black destrier, catching her eye and giving her a reassuring nod, his scarred features calm. Brienne pushed down the visor of her helm, the golden pommel of Oathkeeper sticking out from its sheath at her hip. Seeing them gave her some courage.

The sound of chains and metal heralded the raising of the gate. King Stannis and the northern lords rode ahead to where the army would line themselves in formation outside the gates, the northern banners following in their wake. Sansa rode after them, straight-backed in her ceremonial armor with the direwolf’s head. Heaps of charred bodies were scattered across the fields of snow. No one had taken down the pikes upon which those prisoners had been burned alive, and they stuck out like black splinters in the earth. Across the fields of snow and charred ashes, Lannister banners waved in the wind and snow, their men lining the hillside.

The messenger that had arrived the day prior was released, his mount flying out across the fields and carrying him to the Lannister vanguard. The falling snow turned his silhouette grey in the distance.

Sansa waited just outside the gates and behind the vanguard. Sandow was on her left, Brienne on her right, visors down and shields held steady. She was to remain close to the castle walls when the battle began, _close to safety_. 

It was late afternoon, and the overcast was a dark hue of blue. All was eerily quiet other than the blowing of a horn in the distance. Some movement could be seen from afar, the calls to battle and stampeding of hooves swallowed by the snows all around. Captains were making their rounds to their troops from their vanguard, yelling their orders and preparing for the charge.

All was quiet when the knights and warhorses rode out to meet their enemies. She felt rather than heard the beating of the horses’ hooves in the snow, the vibrations shaking her body. Sansa stayed unmoving near the Main Gate, watching as all the others rode out to fight. No one had stayed behind to protect her except for Sandor and Brienne – Stannis needed all of his men out on the field for this battle.

“Can’t see a fucking thing through this snow,” Sandor grated.

Brienne’s horse whinnied. “I can hardly tell which men are ours and which theirs.”

The armies met less than a mile out, their screams and calls and steel muffled in the snow. Men were falling all around, mainly those who had charged on foot. She did not know how they were able to trek through the nearly knee-high snow that caked the earth. There were muted attacks from all around. To the far right Sansa noticed a large mass of soldiers moving in from near the Wolfswood. _Reinforcements_. They crawled across the landscape like ants on a frosted windowsill. 

“What beast is that?” Brienne called suddenly.

Sansa found that which she spoke of instantly. A hulking mass of a man, taller and larger than all the rest on the field. He towered over the ants like a wasp in their midst. _A Lannister man,_ she noted, not recognizing him from their own ranks. He moved like some lumbering demon of destruction, cutting through men with ease, leading a sortie through the battles and straight for… _straight for me_ , she realized, his shadowed form growing larger and larger. 

“Time to head back in, little bird,” Sandor called. “You’ve seen enough.”

“Come with me,” she pleaded with them, “We can close the gates behind us.”

Then she realized the cowardice of that act. 

“We cannot close the gates on our men, my lady,” Brienne argued. Sansa knew she was right. The sortie was fast approaching now, and there was little time left to decide.

“It’s me he wants,” Sansa said. “I cannot lead him inside these walls. There are innocents-”

“Turn around now, girl!” Sandor ordered. Before she knew it, he had ridden out ahead of them to meet the sortie, Brienne following close on his heels. Sansa watched helplessly as they attacked the large knight’s men at his side. Sandor cut down two of his men, swerving quickly to strike at another. Brienne was aiming her sword towards the knight, but became distracted by three others to her left. The knight himself paid them no heed, swerving past their strikes and swings and making directly for her. Terror raked through her. Sansa’s mare jerked its head, and suddenly she was being bolted through the snows alongside the outer walls of Winterfell, the massive knight gaining hard on her heels as she rode as fast as she could towards the King’s Road to the east, icy winds biting at her face.

The beginnings of the wood were looming straight ahead. She could hear her own heartbeat in her ears. From the fierceness of the knight’s pursuit, Sansa judged Cersei would rather her dead than alive. She did not blame her – she was framed for her son’s murder after all. It was likely she would die this day, but she rode on nonetheless, swerving through the thickening woods before the roads, leaping over rotting logs and heaps of snow. Something fierce and desperate within wanted to live, despite knowing she would not. _All this way, the tourney, the wedding, the leagues I have traveled and the struggles I have endured to find Winterfell. The heartbreak, the death. All for naught._ The gods had answered her prayers, to an extent. _It is not so bad,_ a small voice said, _you fell in love..._

_And he will never know,_ came another voice, a voice desperate to survive. Her hands were beginning to burn where they gripped the reigns of her mount. She chanced a glance behind her shoulder.

His visor was a wall of steel with two long slits from his brow to his chin, and Sansa could discern nothing of his face. He carried a greatsword larger than any she had ever seen, and his horse seemed to sag under his weight, pushed forward by sheer will. Further behind him, however, she saw the two forms of Sandor and Brienne gaining speed. Her heart leapt in her chest. _I may yet live after all._

When she turned, however, she was met with the fast approaching branch of a tree.

She ducked before it could hit her, losing her balance and falling off the side of the saddle with a grunt into a pile of snow in a clearing. The mare kept running ahead without her, a madness overcoming it. There were sounds of horses coming to a quick halt and human grunts from behind her, a woman’s scream. _Brienne._ Sansa recovered herself quickly, but a searing pain shot up her left ankle when she tried to stand. 

The massive knight had been taken down from his warhorse, the beast lying in the dirt squealing and neighing loudly from the pain of its broken legs. The Lannister knight towered a foot or more over both Sandor and Brienne. 

“Yield!” Brienne called, but the knight only raised his greatsword higher, unspeaking when he brought the sword down in a vicious swing towards Brienne, who raised her shield just in time. Sansa’s breath hitched at the impact. The force of it caused Brienne to falter some steps back through the snow, but then Sandor’s longsword came around to cut at the slim openings above the greaves of the knight’s legs. Noticing Sandor’s hacking, he turned his attentions to him, throwing his massive shield into his face and knocking Sandor astray for an instant. Brienne attempted to cut at the knight’s other leg, like hacking at the trunk of some massive tree. 

“BRIENNE!” The greatsword swung out, catching Brienne across her helm and opening a cut from beneath. Red blood slid down to her chin, but she fought on nonetheless.

Sandor ducked under a fatal sideways swing from the knight, continuing to slice desperately at the now open wound on the huge man’s leg. A black substance oozed from just above the greave. Brienne went back to the other leg, both her and Sandor working in tandem to take down this hulking beast while Sansa watched with her heart in her throat, tears streaming down her face. Sandor and Brienne were huffing from exertion, their breaths misting in the air. From beneath the knight’s helm, however, came nothing at all. Not a grunt, not even the smallest cloud of breath. The hairs on Sansa’s skin were raised beneath her sleeves.

She screamed when the greatsword swung down from overhead, catching Brienne on her pauldron and denting the armor grotesquely into her shoulder. The warrior screamed in pain, her sword arm falling limp to her side. Sansa began to crawl through the snow.

The greatsword swung again, but Brienne caught the impact on her shield, the steel denting the armor just as Sandor finally cut the knight’s leg cleanly through below the knee, causing the hulking man to topple to the side like some massive boulder without a sound. 

That did not stop the knight.

He still swung his greatsword, only this time on his knees. Sandor fought on while Sansa limped over to Brienne, forgetting the pain in her ankle in her panic. Brienne was clutching at her armor, her face bloody and contorted in pain. Sansa pulled at the buckles of her pauldron with trembling hands, hearing Sandor’s grunts in the distance. She did not look, could not see, the pain too much to bear. Brienne loosed a ragged scream when Sansa pulled the pauldron off of her, the flesh dented between her shoulder and neck. 

“You will live, Brienne,” she cried, her heart pounding in her chest, “It does not look grievous.”

The woman tried to stand. “Sandor-”

Sansa turned just as Sandor landed a deathly slice beneath the knight’s visor, the blade sinking deeply into flesh, more of that black substance spilling onto his breastplate. The knight’s head hung limply from its neck on a ragged piece of skin. A strong desire to weep overcame her. _I am relieved,_ she thought, _these must be tears of happiness._

Sandor stood over the dead knight, walking over to its head. He tried to lift to visor. “Seven fucking hells.”

“What is it?” Sansa called, wiping the tears from her cheeks and crawling to see. 

“Don’t look, little bird,” Sandor rasped through ragged breaths. “His visor is melded to his face.”

_What?_ She stared up at him uncomprehending through the soft light of dusk. She felt ill. “Who was he?”

“No way of knowing,” Sandor replied, going over to Brienne. “Can you ride?”

“Yes,” she said through her teeth. Sandor helped her to her feet. 

Brienne was able to mount her horse, but not without pain. Sansa’s mare had ridden off, and the knight’s horse still screamed in agony. Sandor put it out of its misery swiftly, then led his destrier over to Sansa. Her lover went to her, picking her up with strong arms and settling her onto the saddle. When Sandor mounted up behind her, all three rode back to the castle walls, leaving the knight’s body far behind them without a second thought.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Winterfell had won that day, but not without considerable losses. The wounded now filled Main Hall as well as the Guest House, and it seemed a constant cloud of black ash hung over the castle for weeks after due to all the burning of the bodies. The fields outside the castle walls were a gruesome sight to behold, but soon the snows covered the ashes and charred bodies, leaving the bones to be discovered again in spring. 

Sansa sat at Brienne’s side in her chambers in the Guard’s Hall. She was sleeping soundly in her cot, her wounds still bound about her shoulder. After the swelling went down completely, she would need to spend much time regaining the strength and movement in that arm. Knowing her guard, her stubbornness and strong willed character, Sansa was confident she would pull through it all.

Stannis remained in Winterfell still, occupying the Warden’s chamber. When Sansa had inquired about his future plans to conquer the Iron Throne, the King had surprisingly told her that the throne would need to wait. There were other threats that loomed in the future, threats from the Far North. Winterfell was an ideal location to make a stand. Sansa did not understand what threat he spoke of. _Wildlings? The Night’s Watch?_ she had asked, but the King only shook his head solemnly. 

A male voice drew her from her thoughts. "You worry about her..."

Sansa turned to find the new Lord of Hornwood standing at the end of the cot. Larence's dark curls fell close to his brown eyes over his brow.

"No, actually," she corrected, going to stand. "I'm proud of her. What are you doing roaming the halls at this hour, my lord?"

The young man colored a bit. _He must not be accustomed to his new title._

"I was looking for you, actually. Perhaps we could talk."

He walked by her side out in the corridors of the Guard's Hall. After some moments, he spoke. "Since I met you at the Gates of the Moon," he began, "I found myself enamored by you, Lady Sansa. I was but a bastard, then..."

 _So was I, not long before that,_ she thought. But instead she opted to be frank. "And now you're a lord. Larence, forgive me, but I know. About the suggested betrothal," she clarified. "I feel I must be honest with you-"

His face fell. "I would not be opposed to the match," he interrupted.

Sansa sighed. _Of course you wouldn't._ "It would be dishonest of me to make any promise to you. My heart, it... belongs to another." Her heart swelled in her chest. Saying those words out loud was so... _freeing._

"I see," he said, his tone dissapointed. "Far be it for me to come between you and your lover, whoever the lucky man may be." Sansa had the courtesy to blush at that. "Perhaps we may be friends?"

"I would very much like that," she said, grinning.

Larence escorted her to the steps of the Main Hall, then left Sansa to retreat to her bedchambers on her own. The Main Hall had been swept clean of broken pottery and ripped tapestries and paintings. Now, the walls were barren and waiting for new decoration. Sansa had already begun working on her embroidery again, comparing notes with Jeyne in the afternoon. The thought made her smile. Everything was beginning to feel normal and safe again.

 _Even this,_ she thought with a grin, finding Sandor waiting for her in her featherbed. He glanced over from where he played with his dagger, a hunger filling his gaze.

Sansa barred the door.

“Anyone could have walked in,” she scolded, hanging her cloak up on the rack.

He chuckled darkly. “If anyone but you walked in, they wouldn’t walk back out.”

“Am I special in some way?” she teased, crawling across the featherbed.

Sandor set down the dagger, eyeing her gown. “Take those off,” he ordered, but Sansa ignored him, her hand going to the ties at his jerkin and pulling them loose. He caught her wrist in his fist. “Do as I say,” he said lowly, a hint of urgency in his tone.

She sat back on her feet, hands going to unlace her gown. The sleeves fell from her shoulders, her nipples perking in their exposure. Sandor only watched her with hooded eyes as she stripped to nakedness. Her auburn hair fell in soft waves down her back. Finally, he moved to remove his jerkin, the thick leather sliding over his muscular back and falling to a heap on the floor. Thick, dark hair covered his chest and the ridges of his abdomen. “Lay down,” he commanded, and Sansa did as he said, an excited heat blossoming in her chest.

When her head rested on the pillow, Sandor’s warm hand went to her tummy, sliding up to caress one of her breasts as his lips kissed the other. Sansa sighed at the sensation, a hand going to thread through his black hair. His hand left her breast and traveled down to her thigh, kneading her there before spreading her legs apart and cupping her cleft. 

“Sansa,” he whispered hoarsely, his mouth close to her ear.

“Yes?” she sighed, desperate to have his touch delve deeper. But the hand that cupped her suddenly went to her waist.

She opened her eyes to look at him curiously.

“I-” he began, then hesitated. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, sighing deeply. “I want you,” she heard him say, his hand squeezing her suddenly.

It did not sound like _wanting_ to her, however. It sounded like something… more.

“Sandor,” she whispered, turning to meet his lips with her own. She kissed him deeply for a long moment before saying what her heart yearned for her to say. 

“I love you.”

He held still for a moment, his breath ghosting over her lips. Then, slowly, his scars twisted into a grin. She could not help but smile brightly back at him.

“I love you,” he repeated, “I sound like a bloody fool.”

Sansa giggled. “You _are_ a bloody fool.”

“You'll pay for that,” he rasped, pinning her wrists above her head. His lips found her breast again, kissing and tugging lightly on her nipple with his teeth, making Sansa squirm beneath him.

"Say it again," she begged, and he did. He kissed every inch of her from her nipples to her earlobe, the stubble of his cheek scratchy on her skin. "I could marry a thousand times," she said with shaky breaths, "but if it isn't you it will never be right." 

"Then never marry again," he growled, kissing his way from her jaw to her lips.

She kissed him deeply, opening her lips to his and allowing his tongue to explore her. He rolled over onto his back, dragging Sansa on top of him. She went to kiss his neck the way he always did to her, finding that his warm skin smelled of leather and steel and _him._ Her kisses traveled to his chest, the hair there tickling her lips. Her hands snaked between them to pull down his breeches, guiding him out. His hands went to grab her bottom as she brought the head of his cock to her entrance, feeling as it slid into her slowly. She let her hips guide their movements now, her hands sliding up to his shoulders. _I will never marry again if I do not marry him,_ she promised herself. 

He made a satisfied noise when Sansa pressed her hips down onto his length, taking him in fully. Then she rolled them, her lips going to kiss his collar, hands above his head. Sandor's warm hands on her bottom squeezed and massaged her while she rode him. “Say it once more,” he rasped. She breathed into his hot skin as he rolled his hips up to meet hers. 

“I love you, Sandor," she said through her sighs of pleasure, "I always will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank all the wonderful people who stuck with this story to its mushy, happy ending - you put up with a LOT of pain and heartbreak along the way. I think I put my own shipper heart through a beating but it was definitely not as bad as you guys had to experience since I knew how the story would end hahaha. Maybe one day in the future I'll rewrite this entire monstrosity from Sandor's perspective, but for now, I just feel so blessed to have had such wonderful readers join me on this wild SanSan ride from the Vale to Winterfell. I hope you're all happy and safe and well and I love you <3 :')
> 
> p.s. If anyone ever wants to talk, I don't think we can message each other on ao3 but my tumblr is tigerofsummer.tumblr.com and my ask is always open.


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